


The Little Brothers of Aluria

by DevilishDaddy



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Dark, Death, Demon Hunters, Drug Use, Graphic Description, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Sexual Bondage, Parody, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia, Stephen King's Little Sisters of Eluria References, Supernatural Elements, There's a lot of moths., Vampire-Succubus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-07 18:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishDaddy/pseuds/DevilishDaddy
Summary: The Gunslinger named Rick Sanchez is one of the best demon hunters on his planet, but even the best of the best have bad days. After being mortally wounded by a mob of ghouls in the abandoned town of Aluria, Rick wakes up inside a medical tent operated by a band of male nurses in effeminate attire. Things quickly descend as Rick realizes these healers have very dark intentions for he and their other two patients.Rick must rely on one of the demons in order to escape the hellish hospice, the youngest of the pack, Morty. However, it's a battle of trusting the beautiful but dangerous boy, or trusting his instincts as a Gunslinger. After all, who's ever heard of a demon with the soul of a human?





	1. The tent. The nightmares. Little Brother Morty.

**Author's Note:**

> First off, thank **you** for taking the time to stop by my page from wherever you were, for taking the time from whatever else you were doing, and for reading "The Little Brothers of Aluria"!
> 
> This story has been my largest fan fiction project to date, and my first ever Big Bang! I'm so happy I participated and I hope that you will enjoy this story. I worked extremely hard on it and I'm very proud of the story I've managed to weave. 
> 
> For those familiar with Stephen King's "The Dark Tower" series, this entire fiction was inspired by his stand alone short story in the series, "The Little Sisters of Eluria". 
> 
> **OFFICIAL BIG BANG ARTIST**  
>  A special shout out to my **amazing** artist for this B.B., Mrs Sundae!!! She made me not _only_ two absolutely incredible, finished and polished pieces for this fiction, but she also worked tirelessly with me to produce some really great concept art for the two main characters and some props! She is one of the sweetest people I've worked with in a very long time, and she was supportive and charming throughout the entire process! It was an absolute pleasure working with her, and if you haven't liked or followed her pages yet, you should definitely check her out and do so now. 
> 
> https://twitter.com/SundaeMrs
> 
>  
> 
>  **OFFICIAL BIG BANG BETAS**  
>  Futagogo are two amazing sisters with a knack for copy editing like I've never seen! Not only did they participate in the B.B. themselves, but they also took the time to read through my entire story–some chapters multiple times–and help me turn a generally well written fiction into an awesomely written one I'm more than proud to show off! They've both been very supportive about my work and are great conversationalists. You can find their accounts all over the web, but I highly recommend you visit and subscribe to their AO3 and Twitter accounts!
> 
> http://www.twitter.com/futagogo  
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/futagogo/pseuds/futagogo

There was a thick pain keeping Rick Sanchez’s eyelids heavy and his mind quiet. The human body has an amazing set of systems, some of which are designed to keep one from noticing just how bad things are on the outside. A defensive system like that had kept the Gunslinger from bearing the brunt of his suffering consciously. In time, however, the coma eventually ended, and his brain started connecting his consciousness with his body once more.

          As Rick’s mind began to stir in the enveloping darkness, he found himself questioning his own existence.  _ Am I dead? _ he asked himself.  _ Did I fail to reach the Tower after all? _

          A loud ringing between the ears made Rick wince. His face contorted alongside his discomfort, for the first time in a long time, judging by the stiffness of his muscles. His dry lips were cracked. His desert tongue lay heavy and lifeless at the bottom of his mouth. He couldn’t think enough to force the hunk of muscle to move yet. Not yet. The fog of a long, mindless game of healing took more than a second to clear away.

          “Shhhhhh.” A sweet voice crept into Rick’s vacant dream. “Hush now,” it said, so softly, as though it were Rick’s lover. Ah, but as he recalled, he had no such luck. No partner to share his journey with or to coax him back to health. He was certain of that much, at least. With the way the sleep clung to his mind, he couldn’t be sure of many other things. Still, the soothing voice spoke to him again in a low tone. “You’re alright. You’re safe here. I’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be alright.”

          Rick felt a delightful sting of cold against the skin of his cheek. He was hot, he suddenly realized. He felt as though he were burning with fever. He tried to open his eyes, to see the face of the individual who was so gingerly dabbing his face with the cold, wet cloth. When he managed to force his lids apart just a crack, his vision was terribly blurred by sleep and sweat.

_           Yeah _ , he thought.  _ I’m alive, and I’ve caught something too. Probably the Desert Fever.  _ His thoughts twisted as his eyes closed once more. He had barely made out the vision of blinding white against white, and that hadn’t given his brain anything new to decipher. He let himself be comforted by the delicate touch as he drifted to sleep.  _ Didn’t Arlette die from that fever? Could’ve been… Probably was… _

 

          When Rick came to again, his mind was much better put together. His body was stiff, but a soft, warm breeze tickled the hairs on his arms and legs. 

_           Are my limbs undressed? Am I naked? _

          Being a Gunslinger meant having to wear strong layers of clothing for two very important reasons. First, Rick spent most of his time traveling in the eye of a blazing sun that’s heat was only matched only by the desert landscapes it cooked during the long, arid days. That meant he needed to shield his naturally pale skin from the intense heat so that it didn’t burn or worse. The second factor was his profession itself. Being a demon hunter required going toe-to-toe with some of the nastiest varmints, mutants, and monsters one could imagine. His gear kept the baddies from instantly sinking their teeth or claws into his delicate human flesh. 

          Usually, Rick wore a complex system of useful layers. His soft-fabric undershirt and pants made sure to absorb most of his sweat and breathed easily to keep him cooler. Over those were a lightweight, long-sleeved shirt—that used to be white—and a pair of thick but not-too-heavy black-ish trousers—blackish because the sands often left them looking more brown than black. A dark-brown duster and broad-brimmed hat kept the sun and his prey from reaching the majority of his skin. Then there were the accessories. His goggles kept out the harsher, sandy winds. His heavy selection of belts and holsters, for his various guns and blades, could be found decorating his hips, legs, and boots. He had satchels for carrying his personal effects and a face mask to keep out the sand and miasma of tainted zones as well. Everything served its function of keeping him alive as long as possible.

          Due to the importance of his coverage, Rick Sanchez was rarely without his garbs, so the feeling of air flowing over his nude limbs was quite startling.

          Rick’s pupils dilated and then settled into place as he adjusted to the mid-morning light streaming in through the—the what? Sheets? Large, pure-white sheets? 

          The Gunslinger was reminded of the beautiful redheaded woman he had almost forsaken his destiny for. She had served as a nun for that damned ministry that oversaw the orphanage Rick had grown up in, the monastery where he had learned the vows of a  _ good  _ man, and the town that he often left after taking up his training as a Gunslinger. Rick remembered the first time he had seen her was through the veil of crisp, white sheets, standing alongside her sisters under their holy protector’s gaze, whispering to themselves about matters taboo for any  _ good _ woman.

          He closed his eyes, and when he opened them the memory was gone. What remained was a reality almost as dreamy as distant recollection. 

          The world around him came into focus and Rick was suddenly very aware of his awkward position. He felt sick and dizzy as his senses fired-up and warned him that what he was looking at now was the ground. His body felt heavy, and he realized that his front was the part most weighted and yet he only felt a few points of contact. He was suspended in air, face down but hovering over some sort of simple but tidy cot. He was diagonal, with his head oddly higher than his feet. This was an unusual position to wake up in, to say the least, and he tried to shift free from whatever material was hugging his limbs, hips, belly, and chest. For a long while, it was impossible for him to move his body at all, so his eyes had to observe his surroundings.

          It appeared that Rick was in some sort of outdoor infirmary, a rather elegant medical tent from the looks of things too. The room he found himself in was not so wide as it was long. Two rows of neatly kept cots ran the course of the magnificent space from end to end. At least, as far to either side that Rick could see without turning his head or lifting it from its place, held up by a single loose band that cradled the bulk of his forehead. It was easy to shift in the smooth fabric. 

          He counted ten beds in his vision. Five lining the row in front of him, the one that appeared to be several feet below him, and the two each to either side of his own bed. Each of these structures were well cared for, with pressed, snow-colored sheets on the mattresses and single pillows in matching crisp covers that sat at the head of each bed. There was a soft-looking, simple white quilt folded at the foot of the cot as well, as though the hospice were ready for a downpour of patients. 

          A walkway comfortable enough for one large man or two smaller persons to walk side by side ran down the middle of the room, horizontally from Rick’s perspective. It separated the far row of beds from his own side. The fabric walls reached up high on all four sides. The subtle wooden framework of the tent allowed for the material to change direction while maintaining structure. The walls joined the room together at a slanted ceiling, though the fabric above seemed to be pulled much more firmly and was tied down somehow, because the roof didn’t billow like the base of the walls. The Gunslinger could hear the difference clearly, even being unable to see what rested above him.

          If he hadn’t awoken in some sort of religious order’s fine medical tent, Rick wasn’t sure what else the place could possibly be. 

          “Errrr.…” Rick knew that he was hanging over the medical bed, but by what means and for what purpose, he didn’t know. 

          It took a great deal of effort, but Rick was able to turn his head ever so slightly so that what lay behind him came into vision in his peripherals. Someone had undressed him. He was certain that he was at least out of his usual attire, but he had no recollection of this tent or how he had ended up there. They had gone through great care to bathe him as well, because the grime of his ventures was absent from his skin and his long, white hair that he usually kept braided back and out of his face was now splayed out, brushed and silken, over his shoulders. The blue-tinted strands obscured some of his sight, but as he carefully turned his head, he could still make out much of what sat in his line of vision. 

          Rick could see some of what was holding him in place. It appeared he was dangling from some kind of thick black poles, held snuggly by various belts and thick, white, fabric straps. He could feel the material, now that he considered it, cupping him in various places. He had no concept of how long he had been there or how on earth he had escaped the —

          “The zombies!”

          An instantaneous burst of memory caused Rick to jolt. When he did so, he tensed his muscles and arched back slightly. His vision whited out completely from the searing pain that abruptly wrecked his senses. He screamed, but only a broken squeak came audibly from between his pale, chapped lips. What had felt completely fine and relaxed a moment before suddenly stung and ached. All over his back, burning hellfire roasted him alive. He was suddenly aware of every crease in his skin and how uncomfortably tight it was pulled over his muscles. Those ached too. 

          Trying to lift his head and shift his limbs from their resting places was not only futile but an act he immediately regretted. Lifting his arms even a little, turning his head to either side more than a smidge, or making any movement in the least now sent lightning bolts of pain through every nerve. 

          The pain left Rick’s head spinning and his ears ringing. Behind the tolling screech was a familiar hiss. It was a low, angry hiss like the constant slurp of a snake’s tongue or box of hissing cockroaches being shaken.  The noise came from a short distance, but he hadn’t realized until then that the sound had been louder, closer, before he had moved.  Rick had heard the sound before, but it had nothing to do with his suffering then. At least, he hadn’t thought much of it at the time. 

          As Rick hung there, strapped tightly in some kind of harness that dug into his inner thighs and hugged his groin, he stared at the white quilt at the foot of his cot and counted the stitches in the blanket’s first square.

_           Distraction from pain _ , his mentor had once said,  _ is the quickest remedy for it. _

          The hissing sound grew louder then. It rose up behind him like a soft chorus, and, within seconds of the local chitter, his agony subsided. All at once, and having nothing to do with his distraction technique—he was sure of it—Rick felt his body relax and his pain ebb to nothing once more. His back was numb again, but not in the way that made his limbs tingle when he sat cross-legged. It was a quiet, easy numbness that lied about his condition completely.

_           What’s back there?  _ Rick fought the urge to try and look behind, not wanting to disrupt whatever made the hissing sound or endure another round of pain. He realized there was little he could do about that situation and decided to move on to other pressing concerns.  _ How am I still alive? _ Rick pondered.  _ They had me down. I was done for! They had their fingers in me! No one could have— _

          Despite his resolve, Rick’s thoughts were disrupted by that hissing sound again. There were multiple sources of the noise, and this time he was sure that the additions didn’t come from his head, but from across the room to his left, towards the back of the tent. It was the same soft buzz he had heard when he had first stepped foot into that ghost town. 

_           Aluria _ , he recalled the welcoming gate had read.  _ Where the ghosts hiss like warning vipers. _

          It became clear to Rick that some living creature was making that sound, and that whatever it was had been in Aluria with him before he had been ambushed by those radioactive mutants, and it might very well have been the same thing responsible for saving him from his gorish demise. He needed to see what—or  _ who _ —it was. 

          Carefully, ever so slowly, the Gunslinger turned his head to the left. His eyes strained in their sockets as he fought for more space in his peripheries. Finally, and without waking his pain, Rick saw what the hissing sound was emitting from. 

          In the back corner of the room was a man who was also suspended off of a bed. This man, however, appeared to be standing in the air, completely perpendicular to the floor. He was covered head to toe in a thick blanket of charcoal-colored…  _ something.  _ In fact, so much of the stranger was concealed that he was only identifiable as a man by what little Rick could see of his lightly bearded face. The Gunslinger couldn’t be sure, but he thought he spied a section of deep red there as well, like a severe fleshwound, just at the edges of where the black met pale human skin. Rick wondered briefly what happened to the man to land him in the same facility as himself. His eyes continued to take in the stranger’s form for clues regarding any part of his own situation. 

          The vertical patient’s thin arms, covered in some sort of thick, black, shifting substance—perhaps it was hair being gently blown by the dry breeze coming through the tent?—were elevated outward as though he were part of a crucifixion. His torso seemed quite normal otherwise, though it too was shrouded in the wispy, dark fur. He was clothed in a simple, sterile white patient’s gown that was only visible in sections. The robe and the man’s legs disappeared into another cloud of darkness that coated him mid-thigh, down to his toes. 

          Not body hair, then. At least it seemed less likely due to the way the dark fluff coated the unconscious man over his clothes, rather than sticking out from under the gown. But for the love of himself, Rick couldn’t decipher what he was seeing. Whatever it was completely hid any sign of flesh or fabric from sight on the sleeping man’s arms or legs. Even more peculiar was how, if Rick stared long enough, the substance seemed to shimmer and dance like waves. Rick’s mysterious roommate seemed to be the only other living thing to the back of the infirmary. 

          “Hey there, stranger.” 

          Rick jerked his head to the right, towards the feminine voice that had suddenly appeared beside him. He had moved too quickly, he knew, because all at once the pain in his body flooded back in and washed over him like a sea of nausea. He bit his tongue to keep from losing what bile still remained in his stomach and waited for the dizzying spell to pass. Fortunately, it went quickly. However, the most unnerving thing occurred to him when this happened.  As soon as he had jerked his head to the side, the hissing fell silent, but from just behind his back. When the pain had stopped, the angry noise returned. 

          “Whoa there, cowboy,” the young woman said with a single chuckle to punctuate her words. “You look like you’ve been through hell. No judgment.”

          Rick scoffed. “No judgment,” he repeated in kind. That was wastelander common tongue. It meant that one could relax and speak freely or not at all if they chose. The listener didn’t have to care either way, which also meant that whatever was said could be shared freely and without the fear of stirring up trouble. 

          Rick’s mind eased when his body fell back into a sense of comfort. He figured he’d be paranoid about what was stuck on his back later on. For now, Rick wanted to know more about the pretty young redhead lying in the cot two down from his right. He hadn’t seen that clearly when he had taken count the first time, so he hadn’t noticed that the sheets and blanket were lifted up over the girl’s figure.

          “And you are?” Rick asked. Even a lovely girl like her was not free of his pre-judgments or paranoia. 

          “My name’s Summer. Summer Smithy. And you’re gonna want to remember that, Grandpa.”

          “ _ Grandpa _ ?” Rick asked with a soft snort that made his spine ache. He calmed his irritation and spoke more softly so as to not disturb his healing body any more. “Look, little girl. I’m no one's daddy, much less their grandfather.”

          “You might want to reconsider that stance, Mister…?” 

          “Rick. Rick Sanchez.”

          “Well, Mr. Sanchez. If any of those nurses ask, you best tell them that you  _ are  _ the father of my father, or else.” 

          Rick was familiar enough with a warning and a threat when he heard them to know better than immodestly disregarding the lass’s words. “Nurses?” Rick raised an eyebrow but otherwise hung still. “Why’s that?”

          Just then, Rick heard another familiar sound. Wooden clattering, like a polished birch marble banging around inside of an oversized walnut shell. 

          When he had walked through Aluria, he had been consciously aware of three distinct and odd sounds. The first had been the hissing that never broke. The second had been a sharp creaking that he discovered was tied to a broken saloon door that had been shifting in the dusty wind. The third noise troubled him the most, because the sound was uneven and more organic than the first two. The sound of wood clattering had come and gone from all around the Gunslinger. At the time, he hadn’t been able to get the idea out of his mind that there were small children toting loose bags filled with acorns, playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek or tag with him.

          Rick had heard the noises constantly while he searched the ghost town for resources and clues about the missing population. He never uncovered the source of the hissing or the clacking, but he felt sure he was about to come to at least one realization.

          Summer Smithy apparently recognized the sound too, because she immediately settled her head back onto her pillow, closed her eyes as though she had been asleep all along, and then she whispered, “They’re not what they seem.”

          Rick had only a moment to contemplate what the redhead might have meant before he realized the kind of danger he was in. From the far right side of the tent, half the wall was pulled back to allow two rows of demons into the infirmary. At least, Rick could have sworn they were demons when he first saw them. Almost as soon as his eyes focused on their ghostly gray flesh, their aged faces wrinkled past standard recognition, their long viper fangs that rested over cracked, prunish lips, the image faltered. The old monsters became youthful men, boys maybe only just men by their last year or so. Their previous appearances continued to shimmer like the surface of disturbed water, and Rick understood he was looking through the veil of magic. He’d hunted down enough monsters to know when a flock of them were moving towards him.

          “Ahhh,” the first male said. His voice was smooth as silk and held the confidence of a beloved priest. “The newcomer wakens! At last!”

          The handsome boys all wore outfits that appeared identical at first glance. On all four of their heads rested the same sort of habit. The design sheltered the tops of their skulls from view, masking the area in a rich, dark red hue that gave the Gunslinger an impression that the boys had been scalped. From the skull-cover rose and fell traditionally long, white, fanning, fabric tails that trailed out behind their heads like replacement hair. They all featured gowns in the same red as the base of their habits, and each of their robes lay under ebony nursing-aprons and center-split bib collars.

          “And the man seems in good health, Brothers,” the first boy said gleefully. He pressed his fingertips together and gave Rick a soft smile that felt like a front for devious intentions. Rick took note that this male wore white gloves that stopped halfway over his palms and concealed nimble fingers. However, one of the others wore gloves of any sort.

          “What joy!” another nurse spoke up. He was almost identical to the others. Same pale, peachy skin, soft brown eyes, and shimmering pink lips. This one, however, had an energy about him. His eyes widened and his teeth showed as he grinned in Rick’s direction. “He’s such a pretty one! Look at those eyes. Mmmnm.” 

          “Morten!” The leader scolded the flirtatious boy to his right.

          The one worrying his lower lip between his teeth—Rick supposed his name was Morten—stopped the action and turned his eyes down towards the floor. “Sorry, Brother Mortimer.” Despite his apology, as soon as the first boy — _ the leader? _ Rick deduced _ — _ took his eyes off of Morten, the little rascal peeked up from under his long lashes at Rick. He smiled and giggled quietly. 

          Mortimer led the other three to the end of Rick’s bed. As they came closer, Rick could tell that there were actually several differences between the young men. Most of those differences were in their accessories, however. Physically, they appeared to be quintuplets. 

          The pack leader had his gloves, and the frisky boy to his right seemed to be sporting a small amount of blush. Either that, or the dolly-paint Rick saw was a symptom of the glamour. If that were the case, Rick felt that it was a bit too obvious and made the entire act feel less authentic. After all, they were clearly young men, yet they were dressed as female nurses. Secondly, they appeared to be hospice workers, nuns-turned-nurses to perform the work of some deity, so he was certain that make-up would be considered a vain and unorthodox substance in their order. Despite this, the one called Morten was clearly exuding pride in both his vanity and his lustful nature. The way the boy smiled at Rick made his sack tense, though he made sure to show no sign of interest on his face. 

          Then Rick noticed Morten’s fingers slip to his belt. Unlike Mortimer who only wore his apron, Morten sported a white utility belt where an array of sharp and possibly harmful syringes dangled in the fabric’s hold. The metal casings had small windows to reveal the color and measurement of the substance inside. The Gunslinger’s keen eyes warned him that the brightly colored fluids in some resembled alchemist or witch brewed concoctions, while other needles still had empty chambers that could be filled with any fluid from one of the nurse’s patients. It was one of these empty tools that Morten’s fingers teased as he eyed Rick hungrily. 

          Mortimer gave Rick a sympathetic smile and offered his condolences. “You have my sincerest apologies, sir.” He bowed his head just enough, his image solidifying and his presence making Rick question if he’d ever really seen their monstrous forms from before at all. “Brother Morten has forgotten his manners in all the excitement.”

          “What’s so exciting, exactly?” Rick asked coyly. This earned a giggle from Morten and a sharper look in Mortimer’s gaze. 

          “Well, you must be terribly relieved to be alive, sir. When our dear Morty found you, you were very near your first step through the Father’s pearly gates.”

          “Morty?” Rick asked. 

          His eyes scanned the other two boys behind the first. They were both quiet. The first appeared to be almost bashful, his head turned away from Rick’s stare and a light pink highlighting his ear. To compliment his softer appearance, he wore a simple satchel over one shoulder. It was decently large and held gauze visibly in the corner mesh pocket. Rick wondered what might be hidden inside the bag, but there was no way of knowing.

          The second boy was more predatory in nature. His eyes were large and fixed on Rick’s, even before their gazes officially met. Other than the exhaustion that left rings around this boy’s eyes, his expression was as flat and still as stone. That was intimidating enough, creepy in a way the Gunslinger didn’t usually have to deal with, but what the young man was sporting on his hips was even more unnerving. A thick, black-leather belt hung heavy around the nurse’s center. Attached by fabric hoops and metal clasps were an array of surgical tools. They were majorically small items: various kinds of scalpels, scissors, knives, and tweezers. However, Rick saw that there was more to the equipment on the back of the belt, hidden from his view. 

          Rick was’t certain, but he thought he spied the handle of a bone saw peeking out from behind the boy’s back. He was suddenly very aware of how helpless he was again and yearned for the comfort of his pistols. 

          “Brother Morthius,” Mortimer explained, gesturing to the eerie surgeon. “Brother Mortavier,” he said, motioning to the shy one. Then he looked back at Rick. “We are the Little Brothers of Aluria. We are Nurses of the Father, and we have saved your life, sir.” 

          Rick could taste the bitterness in Mortimer's last statement. It seethed, “You owe us your life, so be grateful, sickling!” Regardless of their current appearance, Rick understood the second law well. As he recited the rule in his mind, he heard his mentor’s calm voice. 

_           Nothing is ever truly free, Rick. Not in this world, and not likely in the next. _

          More importantly, Rick understood his position. Whatever these “Little Brothers” were, they weren’t human. Having them so near made his thoughts quiver like their glamours, but Rick was no normal mortal and held all comfort at bay. For whatever purpose, they had saved his life. However they had managed, they had power enough to restore him back to life after he’d been certain the zombies had consumed all the meat from his bones. 

          Unlike these impressive creatures, Rick was powerless. He could scarcely breathe too deeply for fear of riling up horrendous pain. Even if he found a way to fight through the agony and finagle his way out of the strange harness that kept him aloft, his limbs were too heavy to fight with, and he was dressed only in a hospital gown. His guns, his precious gifts from Percy Birdson, his beloved teacher, were nowhere to be found. Without those blessed weapons, Rick was as helpless as a babe against ancient spawn such as these.

          So, he played nice. He smiled weakly for Mortimer. “I appreciate the help, Brother. Really, I do.” 

          Mortimer raised a suspicious eyebrow and then seemed to relax again. He smiled pleasantly, though Rick pictured the smile as it had been and as he suspected it truly was: gnarled teeth, broken black lips, and long snake-like fangs that appeared to never retract, hanging over the bottom lip.

          “Very good, sir. Under His eye we serve to live, and by His grace you will be healed.” Rick was sure he saw a quiver of amusement pull at Mortimer’s lips as he spoke. 

          The other three bowed their heads and uttered obedient “Amen”s. 

          “Amen,” said a fifth voice. 

          Rick’s eyes shot to the right, sure he knew that lovely tone. He found another Brother, one visibly younger than the others and more delicate and pretty for it. He appeared as a chapel boy, but dressed in the habit, gown, and apron of a holy nurse. Unlike the others, this child wore no color other than white. The tail of his headpiece was even longer than the other four’s, and there was a large silver bell hooked onto a loop coming from his collar. Rick fancied the attire looked more natural on the boy, but perhaps that was just his instincts telling him to look closer. 

          Unlike the other four, the new arrival’s face never shimmered to reveal something uglier beneath. Rick wondered if this boy was really that much younger, or if he had powers more impressive than those with whom he shared his features.

          “Who’s this now?” asked Rick. 

          The green-eyed boy, yet another difference he had from the others who all sported the same brown hue, had come in silently behind his brethren. He had likely been the one who had held the tent’s door pulled back, Rick realized, and he had ventured over to Summer’s side without being noticed. That was, in and of itself, impressive and a touch disturbing. There weren’t many a beast who could shift around nearby without being detected by at least one of the Gunslinger’s trained senses. Rick wondered if the boy had something that made it harder to recognize his presence, or if Rick was even more detached from his health than he previously suspected. 

          “I’m just Morty,” the youth said. He had helped Summer into a sitting position and had been feeding her what appeared to be some kind of chicken and rice soup before Rick had acknowledged him. Now their eyes were focused on each other’s, and the spoon sat still between his fingers. 

          Mortimer cleared his throat as politely as his impatience would allow. Morty pulled his attention away from Rick and started feeding Summer again.

          “Morty is our youngest. You should pay him no mind. He is still learning the ways of the devoted.” 

          “Right,” Rick said, his tone passive as his mind lingered on Morty a moment longer. 

          Morty’s hair was hidden beneath his uniform headdress, like the others. However, Rick could see a tiny reddish-brown curl sticking out from under the hood by his right ear. Rick had become entranced by the little thing and realized how curious it made him to see what the rest of the boy looked like under all that virtue. 

          After a moment, Rick’s gaze shifted from the curl to the shining decoration on Morty’s ear. A silver clip at the top of his ear connected to his lobe by a tiny chain. The clip itself was surprisingly ornate for such a small trinket. His earlobe contained a thin silver gauge that held a carved out center roughly the size a bottle cap. Suspended in the hole’s center was a bell, a pure white jingle bell that seemed to levitate in the space on its own, never shifting or falling away from its central pivot. 

          “—be nice.” 

          “Huh?” Rick blinked. Tears rolled from the inner corners of his eyes. He’d been staring for too long and had missed what had been said. He looked away from Morty and his fascinating jewelry. When he focused back on Mortimer, he caught the flushed irritation on his cheeks and the mean glare in his eyes. The cruel stare was aimed at Morty and, even though Rick couldn’t prove it, he thought it was aimed at that white bell in his ear. Rick spoke up, wanting—oddly enough—to draw Mortimer’s attention away from the youth. “Sorry,” the Gunslinger started. He made sure to add a little emphasis on his exhaustion, making it seem more like he was just tired than that he had become enraptured by Morty’s appearance. “What was that?”

          “I said,” Mortimer began, unable to hide the hint of bottled rage in his voice, “that it must be nice.” He waited, but when it became clear Rick had missed more than the tail end, he clarified. “Seeing your granddaughter again? Knowing she is alive and well.”

          Rick glanced back over toward Summer. The girl gave a weak smile to Rick but no secret signals the others might pick up on. Not even a pleading look behind her eyes. She just nodded once and continued eating from Morty’s spoon. 

          “Oh. Right.” Rick weighed his options. He figured that Summer must have told them he was her grandfather during the time he was unconscious. He remembered how serious she had been when she told him that it would benefit him to play along. Were these creatures weak to family ties? Could they not kill if another member of the same bloodline was close enough? Did they actually practice some sort of religion or moral code that said they could only feed or take from the loathsome and lonely? 

          The Gunslinger had no idea what the truth was, and Birdson’s voice reminded him not to jump to conclusions. Still, he figured it would be best if he followed the lass’s advice and claimed her as his granddaughter. 

          “Yeah,” he said simply. He smiled sadly back at Summer, but she wasn’t looking at him anymore. “I was worried about her.”

          Mortimer’s eyes glistened as some clever thought passed through his mind. Rick recognized the look from those he had battled in the past. In games of life or death, everyone was trying to get ahead of their opponent. In games of truth and lie, it was often true that the best liars had a way of telling when another was telling a fib. Rick knew he had been caught, or at least that his lie was suspected. Still, he was confident in his ability to bluff.

          “Is that so?” Mortimer closed his eyes to smile foxily, then nodded his head politely. “We are both thankful and blessed that Miss Smith found her way to our care.”

          Rick was a quick man, fastest Gunslinger that ever was, with hands ready before the rest of him, and sharp of wit. He heard the test Mortimer had hidden in his speech and met it with a confident answer. 

          “Smithy,” he corrected. 

          “Oh?” Mortimer raised his eyebrows in seemingly innocent ignorance. 

          “It’s Summer Smithy. Not Smith.”

          “Of course,” the lead Brother said. It was clear to Rick that the boy was disgruntled by his patient’s knowledge. “My apologies.”

          Whether from a lack of a smart challenge or for a schedule Rick could only guess at, Mortimer raised to his full height and clicked his heels against the floor. 

          The two quiet boys behind Mortimer suddenly straightened out and cast their eyes politely downward. The flirty Brother, Morten, squeezed his hands together in front of his face as though he just needed to pray really hard before he could settle down and fall in line with Mortimer’s order. He too came to pose like the other two. Then Mortimer looked towards Morty.

          “Brother Morty. Be sure he eats all of his portion. He’ll need his strength for the doctors to work their miracles.”

          “Yes, Big Brother.” 

          Morty bowed his head respectfully and held it there as the other four took their leave. When they were gone, he lifted his head, and, for just an instant, Rick thought he saw a glimpse of disgust mark his pretty face. 

          Rick’s stomach knotted as he considered the expression while Morty finished up with Summer’s meal. The Gunslinger was very familiar with what pain was and what it looked like. There were all different kinds of pain. There was the pain of loving someone you didn’t know, the pain of losing someone you did. There was the pain of a rib broken by an innocent fall and the unique pain that came from a nose busted by a well-meaning friend. Pain came in flavors more numerous and intricate than the human tongue could taste or the eyes could perceive. 

          Despite this, Rick Sanchez was certain he could recognize the surface texture of most forms of pain. Enough, at least, that he would have bet real coin that what he had seen in Morty’s expression was hatred. The kind of hatred that came with more than just circumstance. 

          Rick relaxed as he saw the Little Brother with the white bells tuck Summer in and leave only long enough to trade out her empty bowl for one filled with fresh, steaming soup. As Morty settled in place in front of Rick, the Gunslinger recalled another of Birdson’s lessons:

_           Always seek the crack in your enemy's defenses, then strike there without mercy. _


	2. The pretty Brother. The dream. The offering of semen.

“So,” Rick started, wanting to learn more and not risk drinking the soup he figured was almost assuredly drugged. It had been something in the way Mortimer, the so-called Big Brother of the Aluria nurses, had emphasized the importance of its consumption that gave Rick this impression. “Tell me about yourself.”

          Morty had come to stand before Rick, a fresh bowl of hot chicken and rice soup in tow. Rick knew that the boy could see the hunger in his features, hear him swallowing back small pools of saliva that swelled up under his tongue. It was embarrassing for the proud demon hunter to be at the mercy of anyone else, but he tried to maintain his dignity by avoiding overeagerness in his motions and dialogue. His stomach growled, a noise which offset the hissing in the room for just a moment. Then whatever was making the noise started up again, and things went on. 

          “Oh, nonsense,” Morty said simply. His tone was a touch bitter and distant, and Rick noticed that the small nurse didn’t even try to look him in the eye now that they were so close. “Don’t pretend you care a-at all, not about someone like me. You don’t  _ know  _ me and I’m not here to be your friend. So just drop it.”

          Rick raised an eyebrow and felt more certain than ever that Little Brother Morty had, in fact, been mistreated by the others, one way or another. There was such aggression in the boy’s undertones and words that the Gunslinger wondered why it was the boy felt the need to be so defensive. “I’m curious,” Rick announced. “You’re not like the others. I can tell. And I figure I like you a little more than them already. No— ugh—no context needed.”

          Morty turned his head down and away so that Rick couldn’t see his expression. Rick watched the young man’s hand, the one not currently holding the bowl, ball into a fist. His other hand clenched the edge of the bowl tightly, making Rick ponder if it was embarrassment, anger, or some other emotion he had inspired. 

          “I’m no different than them,” Morty hissed under his breath. The sound was so quiet and angry that Rick almost couldn’t translate the words into good sense in his mind. Then he thought he understood something important.

          “You’re cuter, for one thing,” the Gunslinger said. “And your bells are prettier too.”

          That seemed to have hit a chord. Morty suddenly shot a look of poison-tipped daggers at the old man. As if to make Sanchez’s point, however, the bells tolled delightfully in their hovering positions. No dull, wooden clacking, but high-pitched chimes that made Rick think of cold water. For just an instant, he thought he heard the sound emitting from somewhere else too, somewhere lower on the boy than his face, but he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps the larger bell that rested on his collarbone, hanging from the collar of his uniform’s bib?

          “These bells are hideous,” Morty said. He spoke the words as if the admission itself stung. “Th-there’s nothing  _ nice  _ about them!”

          Morty’s eyes suddenly widened like a schoolboy caught talking back to the teacher. Rick almost expected one of the other nurses to come in and bend him over for the paddle from all the fear and guilt on Morty’s expression. 

          “N-no. Just—just forget I said anything.” Morty started to turn to leave, and Rick realized he’d lose lunch  _ and _ an important opportunity if he didn’t react quickly. 

          “Didn’t your boss tell you to feed me?” he asked in a gruff voice.

          Sure enough, that did the trick. Morty paused and then turned back to the suspended man. His cheeks were flushed a light pink, and he looked a tiny bit older from the stress of the topic. Rick wanted to ask him more about it, about his species and their habits, about the bells that stayed in place even while having no earthly tether the Gunslinger could see. Despite himself, he needed an ally more than the information right then, so he opted for a more polite and indirect approach.

          “L-look, Morty.” He made sure to say the kid’s name in a simple way dipped in polite favor. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m not a great conversationalist on the best of days, and—well—” Rick gestured with his hands as gently as he could manage without forfeiting the effect he was going for.

          Regardless of his effort, a sudden and ferocious pain shot through his shoulders, making him grunt and close his eyes to help bear the sensation. Rick waited until the pain eased back into obscurity and then offered Morty a weak smile before he finished his thought. “As you can see, these haven’t exactly been my best days.”

          “A-are you making a joke about almost dying?” Morty stuttered a lot. Rick wondered if it was physical or psychosomatic.

          “Don’t see why not.” Rick would have shrugged, but he reasoned that wouldn’t be the wisest move. “I’ve been in worse situations than being tied up in a hospice and being served—being cared for by such a nice kid like yourself.”

          “You don’t even know me,” Morty said in a disgruntled tone. He sounded nervous and earnestly offended, Rick noted. “A-and you—you don’t know what I’m like at all.”

          “I know you hate it here more than anything.” Rick’s voice was heavy with the desire to rest more, but for all his physical exhaustion, his eyes were bright and focused on Morty’s face. He saw the startled expression come on strong and then get buried away. “I know you don’t like those bells of yours or what they mean either.”

          Morty almost gasped, but his eyes narrowed and he scowled instead.  _ Still _ , Rick thought,  _ such a pretty face.  _

          “You know nothing.” Morty spoke quietly at first. Rick could hear the boy grinding his teeth by the tone alone. Then the nurse spoke louder, pushing out what seemed like a lot of built-up frustration. Rick didn’t take it personally, though. Clearly the kid’s life had been a tough one. “N-n-nothing about it!”

          “No,” Rick admitted in monotone. “Not the details, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see how the shit  _ they _ put you through reflects on the surface.” He said “they” ambiguously, on purpose. He let Morty decide if he meant the bells themselves or the other Brothers.

          Morty’s pale cheeks flushed a deeper hue that Rick thought suited the boy very much. He couldn’t get over how adorable and large Morty’s green eyes were, or that small reddish-brown curl that poked out by Morty’s ear, or the way Morty’s eyes searched his own for something. Rick expected Morty to give up and dish out his life’s story then, or for him to start yelling and going on and on about how ignorant the mortal man was of his desperate circumstance. Yet, neither happened. Rather, Morty simply lifted the bowl of soup, blew off the first spoonful, and held it out to Rick’s lips.

          “You need to eat if you plan to—to regain your health.”

          Rick obliged the silent truce and opened his mouth wide. He took the first spoonful gracefully and let the soup roll around on his tongue a while before he finally swallowed. For now, he found he didn’t have much energy. Even chewing on the bits of soft rice seemed like an unnecessary and draining chore, so he pressed the solids up against the roof of his mouth with his tongue until they became more like paste, then swallowed. 

          “You put some strange herbs in your soup.” Rick was not shy enough nor cared enough to refrain from drawing Morty’s attention to some of his more refined skills. Skills like detecting ashberry root when he tasted it.

          Morty seemed genuinely taken aback. He stared at the Gunslinger for a long moment, lips gently parted and eyes gawking. Then he relaxed and contemplated a second more before he chose to speak. “You have to eat,” he finally said.

          “Indeed, I do.”

          “It’s just to help you relax,” Morty said, a bit too obviously. “To sleep. So the  _ Doctors _ can do their work.”

          “Doctors?” Rick asked, but he didn’t get a response. Something about the way Morty said the word, though, made the hunter think he needed to know more. Yet he was met with only more quiet staring. Morty was hiding things from him, he was sure of it, but Rick was as fascinated by that fact as he was made frustrated by it. Mostly because it was so unusual that he couldn’t read his target clearly.

          The experienced monster killer had met many kinds of creatures in his time, and he had slain hundreds using his guns and knives, but in all that time he had never met such a  _ human-like _ creature as the demon named Morty. Sympathetic monsters, sure. He had even allowed a family of Shriekers to flee to the far lands in exchange for their word that they would never return to haunt the graves of his kin. That had been a tough choice to make for a teenager bent on revenge. However, that had been a decision the Gunslinger had made based on morals and ethics. 

          He saw the Shriekers as frightened animals. Nothing more. Just beings trying to survive and feed their young. In the end, he could not blame them for their late-night dining on those corpses any more than he could blame a hungry dog for growling and snapping at his heels. It was annoying, even painful, but it was just the course of nature. Give the dog a steak, and it’d leave him alone. Send the Shriekers away to a valley of unmarked and uncared-for graves, and his lost loved ones would remain undisturbed.

          That was the way Rick saw demons and demon-hunting as a whole, just like animal control, but with blessed bullets and blades and usually quite a few more complications. Morty, however, was proving the contrary. It seemed to Rick as though whatever the nurse was, he was torn by more than his options for survival. It was as though the boy struggled with his own sense of morality, aware of his own existence on a deeper level than his so-called Brothers, let alone other creatures of darkness.

          Rick took a few more spoonfuls and thought back to his mentor again. He clearly remembered the day he had learned about the way of demons, mostly due to Mickey Schuanch, another young Gunslinger who trained with Rick for some time under Birdson.

          Birdson had said to his boys,  _ Spiritual confrontation is humanity’s greatest gift and curse. We bear it. They do not. So do not waste your time hoping a demon will show mercy. Demons cannot comprehend mercy. They only care if a situation aids them. They are dumb like the snake and shrew, but they have no fear of the common human. That is what makes them so dangerous. Do you understand? _

          Rick understood, but Mickey should have heeded their wise teacher’s advice. 

          Rick reminded himself,  _ You can’t bargain with a demon unless it believes it’s getting the best hand. If all it wants is your life, there’s no getting out without doing something stupid and immoral.  _ However, no matter how many times or ways he said it to himself, how he reminded himself of the eleventh guideline, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Morty was behaving very, very human.

          “Good job,” Morty said. His voice broke Rick away from his thoughts. He realized he had been half-asleep, caught between dreams made of memories and habitual eating in silence. “You finished a-all of it. Mortimer will be proud.”

          “You don’t have to live like this,” Rick said, his voice heavy with the effects from the ashberry root soup. He sounded almost like other men closer to his age, babbling while resisting a constant string of yawns. “You—you are your own person, Morty. You—you don’t have to—to—” 

          Rick fell asleep. He had been unable to fight the heaviness weighing on his mind and body. He hadn’t the strength nor desire to push past the warm blanket of fog that the soup brought with it, partially because it hit him so suddenly that he hadn’t even realized he had fallen asleep.

          When finally an alarm went off in his head, warning him that he wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings or status, Rick’s eyes shot open and he jerked his head up in a startled jolt. The movement had been a mistake. No sooner had his mind started to find clarity with what his eyes told him than an unforgiving pain ran through the nerves along his back and down his legs. The stabbing, burning pain came with an eerie silence that was louder than the hiss he hadn’t realized he’d come to rely on. The soothing sound ended as soon as he had moved, and the horrible agony returned a blink later. The fury of sensation blurred his vision and made his mind white out for a long moment. 

          Rick screamed from the pain and stupidly tried to ease it with more movement. He suddenly knew he needed down, out of the leather and silk straps that held him aloft above the cot. Those bindings restrained his movements and allowed whatever made the hiss to come and go, having its way with him freely. He couldn’t see what the source of the sound was, but he felt uncharacteristically afraid of it. 

          “Get off of me!” he choked out. His voice was dry, gravely and cracking from the long, deep nap. He found a way to endure the pain enough to rock himself side to side and thrash into an entirely new kind of hell. It felt as though someone had taken a sharp reaper and filleted the flesh right off his back and thighs. Those imagined wounds felt raw, still bloody and fresh. They throbbed as he moved, but he saw no other option but to flee. “Get off!”

          Without warning, the hissing reappeared, but this time it came like the shaking of a thousand angry rattlers’ tails. It was much more aggressive, angrier than before, and the sound filled the night and Rick’s hazy mind. Rick came to the impression that there was a giant Hell-spawned serpent behind him rearing back to strike its delicate meal. Then he heard bells. Not the hollowed wooden ones, but the high chime of Morty’s bells. 

          Rick heard the boy gasp, and then the bouncing tolls of his hasty entrance into the tent was replaced by a fierce chorus from his twinkling accessories. All at once, the entire room filled with the sound of his bells, as though there were dozens of them all being shaken feverishly at once. 

          A quiet came over the monster behind Rick, and then the bells quieted too. Before Rick could gather his thoughts or do any more squirming, Morty rushed over and took Rick’s face into his hands. 

          “Stop moving!” he ordered. Rick looked down into the boy’s face and saw worry in his eyes despite the harsh order. “You must calm down, or you will reopen your wounds. If you start bleeding to death now, I won’t be able to help you.”

          Rick’s vision stung, and the burn worsened the more he blinked. He realized then that he was sweating like a waterfall and he was hot all over. To top it off, his body was still in tremendous pain. He still felt flighty, but somewhere in his mind Rick also realized how uncharacteristic that was for him.

          “Your fever’s back,” Morty said, as though explaining Rick’s concerns away. “You must let the Doctors work.”

          “ _ What fucking doctors _ ?” Rick tried to look around using only his eyes, to see if he could locate other persons in the dimly lit room, but he already had the notion that he would find no one. He had an itching suspicion that whatever hissed and hung on his back was one—or many of—the healers Morty was referring to. 

          “Don’t worry about that right now,” Morty murmured. He reached up a pale hand and pressed it to Rick’s cheek. “You need to rest.”

          Rick felt the cool, soft hand against his hot face, and it soothed him to his core. He couldn’t help but lean his head into the hold, and he was none the wiser as the delicate hand led his forehead back into position in the sling. He only understood that he felt calmer, better than he had before, despite his circumstance remaining as desperate as it had been. 

          The hissing returned to its dull rustle and the pain started to ease once more. Rick remained unaware as he slipped back into a hazy sleep that lent dreams to his thoughts about the strange boy and his tender care. 

 

          After some incalculable amount of time, Rick thought he heard a voice on the outside pulling him back into the waking world. “Rick?” Morty’s soft voice cooed to him in his sleep. “Rick, are you awake?” 

          Despite the question, Morty sounded hushed, as though he didn’t want to disturb the man if he was, in fact, still resting. Then Rick felt those cool fingers stroke his forehead, pushing his longer hairs behind his head and over to his opposite shoulder. His neck was left exposed, which felt particularly dangerous, although for reasons Rick could not quite recall. The concern came from inside, from the part of him always on alert, but on the surface Rick was silently swooning from the contact.

          “You’re very handsome,” he heard Morty say. 

          Rick managed to get his tired eyes to part just in time to see a flash of shadowed color rush by his vision. The boy was in the cot that sat under him, and now Morty’s arms were around Rick’s neck. Rick almost started, then an overwhelming hot chill ran from his throat and devoured his nerves. Morty had kissed him there, on his neck just below his ear, and the sensation of lust shot through him all at once and made his sack tighten. 

          Morty whispered something that made no coherent sense to Rick, then he placed several more slow, passionate kisses along his exposed throat. Rick tried to speak, tried to move his arms down to grab at the boy for many reasons, but his bindings kept him held aloft and in place, and he found it impossible to speak.

          “I want to taste you.” Morty purred these words like an experienced and sensual whore, making sure to tease Rick’s skin with his lips and hot breath as he spoke. 

          Rick felt his heart flutter and pulse violently in his chest. He had lain with men and women alike, but something about this young man made Rick’s blood boil in a way he couldn’t quite understand, much less explain. He felt his cock stiffening against the loose fabric of his white gown and knew it was tenting without ever having to see it. The mass shot into a salute when Morty’s suddenly very adventurous hands lowered and began massaging his shaft and balls through the material.

          Morty moaned against Rick’s ear and made him shudder like he was once again a virgin lad still wet behind the ears, still just a boy going to church to ask the god he didn’t believe in to forgive him for looking sinfully at the prettier nuns. 

          He hadn’t been touched by another person in quite a while, and his eagerness was far more evident than he would have liked. Just the implication of Morty’s words drew Rick to the edge. 

          A pretty face moved back into Rick’s view, and he gazed into Morty’s beautiful green eyes as the two kissed for the first time. The boy’s eyes halfway shut, and his motions were slow and explorative at first. Then they became braver, and soon the two had their mouths locked together in something like a dance. Morty moaned and pushed against Rick’s lips harder and more fully with each pass. His cheeks started flushing a deep pink that translated even in the dark room, and Rick could feel the heat starting to come off of him.

          Below, the white-clad nurse worked the soft fabric of the gown up and down Rick’s swollen member, twisting his fist along the path from the old man’s pelvis to his crown, then back down again. The feeling made the demon slayer temporarily forget his situation and that he was being handled by a monster. All he could think about was how beautiful Morty was, how intimately he was staring into Rick’s eyes, and how amazing his hands felt rolling Rick’s sack and running the length of his prick.

          When Morty pulled his lips away and loosened his hold on Rick’s cock, the older man almost whined. He stared at the boy, knowing how needy he must have looked but not caring, but then relaxed as Morty smiled softly and dropped down out of sight.

          Rick could only see the curve of Morty’s back and nice round bevel of his ass through the hospice nursing gown, but he could feel what was happening clearly. He bit his lower lip and decided he might pray long enough to thank the boy’s god for what he was about to receive.

          The youngest Brother sat up on his knees with his body leaned forward. His hands worked Rick’s robe up and over his hips. He tucked the extra fabric into the belts at the man’s waist so that they wouldn’t fall back down and obscure his work. Then he reached out and timidly ran his fingertips down the sides of Rick’s now fully exposed cock. 

          “Good enough to eat,” Morty said with a giggle and a hungry groan behind his words. 

          There was something uncharacteristic about the behavior, but Rick couldn’t think clearly enough to care. He’d just let whatever would happen unfurl because he desperately needed it to happen. He needed to feel that small death or risk the real thing. It was a ridiculous notion, but he was certain that he wouldn’t survive if Morty were to leave him as he was.

          Thankfully, Morty was a faithful nurse—certainly more faithful to his work as a practitioner than to his responsibilities as a devout man. The boy’s hot breath was the first thing Rick felt, blazing gusts rolling over his exposed genitalia. Then the press of the boy’s tongue erased any remaining thought in his mind. Morty’s hot, wet muscle rolled over the engorged rod, and Rick couldn’t hold back the moan that tore from his throat. The deep sound vibrated in the room oddly and made Morty visibly shiver beneath his partner. Rick watched Morty’s spine quake, and he felt the pass of Morty’s praying organ as it lashed out and greedily tasted the flesh of the Rick’s aching limb.

          “Morty-! Nngh-!” Rick could feel the powerful muscle pressing against his sensitive body, dragging the thinning skin along with it as it skated along the sides and belly of his dick. The nurse wiggled his hips just a little and hummed lustfully as he worked. Rick watched those hips sway cutely and relished the alluring idea of taking the other man’s innocence from his god and claiming it for his own. 

          “Rick,” Morty whined the name around the man’s cock. “You taste so good.” The Little Brother lapped, kissed, and slurped all along the shaft until it was tingling and red from the strain of its impending eruption. 

          Rick heard Morty open his mouth wide, making an almost cartoonish sound as he parted his lips as far as they would go. Then, all at once, those burning lips were locked around the base of Rick’s crown, and his tip was kissing the back of the boy’s throat. The suspended man growled and gritted his teeth against the waves of pleasure that wracked his body. 

          It was such a unique experience, being helpless and suspended while his cock was worked over inside Morty’s mouth. He couldn’t move his arms or legs, or even buck his hips. He could merely hang there, heavy and overheated, as Morty took the pleasure for himself. 

          It wasn’t the typical way Rick performed with sexual partners. Usually, he held his own or conquered them, rocking into them as he cradled them, gazing down at them from above while his hips worked them into a stupor. He  _ was  _ above Morty, but might as well have been lying sprawled under him and tied to the bedpost, for all the control he had. With Morty, it seemed incredibly erotic and satisfying to be at the boy’s mercy. 

          Morty’s head bobbed up and down, and Rick felt more and more of his rod start to penetrate the boy’s esophagus. His blood-flooded glans popped into place as the cock ran down the boy’s tight, slender throat. Rick was surprised when his partner failed to gag, but instead started pushing the beast deeper inside himself. 

          Eventually, Morty’s nose pressed into the meat of Rick’s lower abdomen, and his bottom teeth threatened the very base of the man’s cock. He had managed to take the entire thing, a feat no man or woman had managed for the Gunslinger’s pleasure or their own. In the end, Rick found himself thinking about that tiny curl of reddish-brown hair that stuck out of Morty’s habit by his right ear. 

          Rick gasped as he felt the metaphorical push off that taunting ledge. He closed his eyes hard, and his body quivered all over as every muscle tensed against the onslaught of sensation. His balls ached in that delightful and somewhat terrifying way that emptied his head of all thought. His ass clenched tightly, and he felt his cock struggle in the tight confines of Morty’s throat. Steaming white cords of spunk tore out of him and filled up the suffocating cavern with the essence. 

          When Rick dared to open his eyes, he was still cumming, but the room around him was different. There was a pounding in his head, aching in his back, and a quality to the darkness filling the tent that explained what had happened. He was shooting off the last of his load when it dawned on him that he had dreamt the entire scenario. 

          For just a moment, he thought the feeling of the mouth around his dick was a phantom sensation. However, he felt something begin to swallow him down. The very real and semi-painful tug of his cock being devoured warned him that at least part of his dream was based in reality.

          That’s when the Gunslinger noticed the faint outline below him. It was hard to see. Rick thought abstractly that the moon must have been hidden behind clouds that night or the light would have illuminated the tent’s interior a little more. However, the man was a well-trained demon hunter, so even in his spent, half-asleep haze, he realized there was a darkly-clad form resting under him. The familiar gown belonged to one of the Brothers, he was fairly certain. Not Morty, but one of the sinister four. The material had blended with the color of the surrounding darkness, so he had missed it. It was not the pure white dressings of a religious healer, but the tattered, smokey red-turned-black robes of hellspawn. 

          He feared the worst but could not stop himself from taking an optimistic view. In the forefront of his mind, he assumed that Morty really had snuck in to see him, that the boy had whispered those sweet admissions into his ear. Rick thought it was possible that he had even spoken in his sleep, and that Morty hadn’t realized he was taking of an unconscious man. It seemed likely that Morty, too, had an abysmal form under the purifying glamour, like the others. It was wishful and ignorant thinking, but it was all his exhausted mind could accept. 

          Yes. The Gunslinger convinced himself that the being before him was, in fact, the sweeter Brother, Morty. Though something about this decision rang false in the very back of Rick’s subconscious, his active thoughts secured the notion.

          So, despite the monster’s hideous form, Rick found himself with a hurricane of a second wind that inflated his quieting cock and forced out another wave of semi-translucent fluid in a hot burst. There was something wickedly arousing about the situation that made Rick shake and cum so harshly.  _ The taboo of the lion and the lamb making their bed together? _ Though, perhaps, that wasn’t the best analogy. After all, both the hunter and the demon were predators by their nature, but the allegory remained a fitting image in Rick’s opinion. 

          The man heard a soft, surprised squeak from down below, then was surprised as he felt claws digging into his bare hips. The boy below guzzled down the flow of spunk greedily and without pulling back for a single breath. He bobbed his head and took in everything Rick would give him. It was a miraculous time until the Gunslinger realized something was off.

          The bells, the ones that jingled as the head rocked, sounded distinctly  _ wooden _ . 

          “Get off!” Rick tried to yell, but his voice came out weak and tired, so it was far less intimidating than he meant it to sound. 

          There was a disgusting, long, moist-sounding slurp as the creature below him pulled off of his softening member. Whichever Brother had violated him removed himself with a self-satisfied gasp of fresh air and a small moan. 

          Rick saw the wide open mouth of the demon. The monster’s long, dangerous fangs glistened in the pale light, and Rick could smell himself on the thing’s breath. The glamour that might have saved Rick some sanity was nowhere to be seen. The vampire, or whatever it was, giggled and licked his lips free of extra fluid. 

          Hadn’t it been the one called  _ Morten _ who had flirted so recklessly when Rick had first awoken? Yes. The Gunslinger thought, that sounded right.

          ”Oh dear,” the demon said mischievously. His wide, dark eye sockets gave the illusion of a skull. Set deep in the sockets were the monster’s two beady, red eyes that appeared to glow in the night. The orbs drew Rick’s focus. However, he noticed the very long, very boney finger that the creature lifted up to its lips. “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” 

          The demon hushed Rick and then grinned a terrible, wide smile that showed off its rows of jagged teeth and violent fangs. 

          Rick felt a rush of nausea threatening to go public with its disgust. He thought to fight back somehow, but even as he went over the details of how to escape the binding and get one of the belts down from the ceiling so that he could use it to strangle Morten to death, the ashberry root took over once more and dragged him back to sleep. 

          Morten’s grinning features behind the one frightful digit pressed to his lips was the last thing Rick saw before he passed back out. As he was lost to the thick, medicated sleep once more, guilt conquered his emotions. He had been too eager to disrespect the good Brother who had fed him and cared for him so gently. Now that the dream was a confirmed lie, Rick felt like a special breed of monster.

          In the growing part of his subconscious, the Gunslinger heard his mentor’s voice remind him of what was most important: 

_           Incubi are demons that feed off the lust of humans. The only ways to kill one are…. _

 

          A dreamless sleep consumed the rest of Rick’s night.


	3. The man named Jerry. Morty’s words. The Doctors.

Before his eyelids parted again, his mind was lost to Aluria. He walked dusty streets beaten flat by townsfolk and their hooved companions, listening to the dull wooden clack of the Brothers’ bells. He knew it was them now, running all around with demonic speed, watching him from the shadows as he ventured through the town they had already bled dry. There had only been a pinch of life left in their infirmary, and they wanted the strong hunter for his plenty of meat and bodily fluid. 

         In his dreams, he was trapped in that place, forced to run within a paradoxical town that folded in on itself and restarted at each end, as though the town was nothing more than a series of repetitious and neverending tiling. And each time he fled to a new square, to a new copy of the town, the sun dipped lower in the sky and the ruckus of the wooden bells grew louder and more jumbled. The Brothers were circling like sharks, growing steadily closer with each pass. Then he heard the sound of the hissing darkness. It came with the subtle flap of tiny wings, like miniature eagles, hovering in the growing night all around the Gunslinger. He began to run. 

         Time moved immeasurably fast towards dusk, and the abandoned buildings all around grew wider and spread out on all sides to make an endless alley without any other paths by which to escape. A thick mist rolled in from between the gaps in the architecture and in a frightening wave behind Rick. It chased him, closing in as he listened to everything past his thudding heart. 

         Those witchy monsters giggled, taunting him and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. An almost paralyzing cold wind blew through the single nightmare street, pushing the mist through the town so that it became an all-consuming fog. Suddenly, Rick had to stop. He couldn’t see anything more than a yard away. He was lost in the blanket of fog so dark in the night that it might as well have been smoke. 

         “Show yourselves!” he tried to call angrily, but his words were eaten by the swirling vapors around him. He clenched his fists and realized for the first time they were empty, an awful and odd sensation, given his dire predicament. He reached to the holsters on his hips, under his dirty brown duster, but his trusted weapons were gone. 

         It occurred to him then that he had known he had been defenseless all along, but he couldn’t imagine when the beasts had managed to swipe his guns. His panic only worsened as he realized that every other tool of defense had been taken away too. His various knives, daggers, smaller guns, and even his extra bullets and cartridges were missing from their usual places. 

         His mind raced over options as he looked around, but everywhere was just more impenetrable fog. Then he saw something and moved cautiously to grab it. In the blink of an eye, however, the object grabbed him!

         A rotten collection of fingers wrapped around his wrist and tugged him towards the earth, but he pulled back with enough force to dislodge the zombie arm from its host. No sooner had he pulled the grip from his arm than he realized that there were dozens of ghoulish moans now coming from every direction. His gaze lifted and scanned the fog for undead life, and what he found failed to surprise him, but it did chill his blood. He was surrounded.

         One man, no matter how physically ideal, was no match for such a horde. Even a Gunslinger as renowned as Rick Sanchez couldn’t hold his own in the face of so much gluttony, not without his guns. 

         As the undead lunged and began to bite through his leather and skin, Rick focused on the noise beyond the disgusting squelching, slurping, and crunching of his attackers. He listened to the laughter coming from the high-toned voices of the demonic nurses. It grew louder as the pain flooded RIck’s nerves. The giggling continued until it became real and the nightmare slowly seeped into the pit of the Gunslinger’s damaged subconscious, until all that was left was the laughter and the clunking of the wooden bells. 

         When Rick finally awoke, he felt the pain the dream had made him suffer ebb into an all-consuming weight. Not hurtful, just a heaviness that made his body ache in that dull way that warned he hadn’t moved in too long. His mouth was dry and his tongue was thick again. He only mulled over his dream long enough to decipher that there were no hidden hints to reality within its design, only his stresses given a theatrical outlet. He patiently blinked and sucked on his tongue to work at least some of the sleep away before he contended with the waking world.

         It must have been early morning, because the tent was still cool—which explained the cold fog in his dream—and there was a blaze of color slowing burning its way up the fabric walls. There were no songs of the sweet desert birds that roamed the western valleys near Allura. Not even the buzzards or crows wanted to be near the damned place either, it seemed. Or perhaps it was impossible for him to hear over the haunting laughter still ringing between his ears. He tried his best to ignore it and waited for it to fade by searching the area.

         Summer Smithy, the sweet, redhead that had possibly saved his life, rested peacefully on the bed at his right. Rick couldn’t help but think how beautiful the girl was, and the surrogate paternal way it made his heart warm made him think a bit too deeply for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, he remembered the horrible events of the night before. His stomach lurched, and he swallowed back a pool of bile that had crawled its way into his mouth. The guilt and feelings of wounded pride found him again, but a new worry came with the old ones. If that little creep had done that to Rick, what chance was there that the beasts took advantage of their other patients? 

         He promised himself that, no matter what else happened, he would find a way to help Summer escape the hospice. 

         “He’s almost ready,” a voice came from Rick’s left. He jumped a little, unsettling the hissing creatures behind him just long enough to send a jolt of pain down his spine. Then things calmed again, and he realized that the Brother who had spoken wasn’t actually near him. It must have been one of the silent two from the previous encounter with the group because Rick didn’t recognize the deeper tone. “I’m getting impatient.”

         Carefully, Rick shifted his head in the sling. It was extremely difficult, but not for the same reasons as before. Rather than feeling immobilized by the threat of pain and his own exhaustion, Sanchez knew this difficulty stemmed from the effects of the ashroot berries boiled into the soup Morty had fed him. He was familiar with the weighted sensation of being drugged.

         “Yes,” another nurse said. This one was whispery, but it was the loudest and highest-pitched whisper Rick had ever heard. He thought it might have been Mortavier, the shy one that had stood behind Morten. “I’m so hungry, Big Brother. When do we get to—”

         “Soon,” Mortimer said, hushing the others. Rick was certain that was the leader of the pack by his pompous undertones, even before he settled his head to the other side and saw that it was, in fact, the one in gloves speaking. 

         The Brothers communicated more quietly then. Rick had trouble making out exactly what they were saying, but his eyes widened and focused on the man they were chittering around. 

         Almost all of the black furry stuff that had covered the majority of the unconscious patient had disappeared. Rick could see more clearly now that the man was about half his age and had a small patch of curly brown hair on top of his head. He wasn’t a farmer or a worksmith of any type, judging by how pale and plush his thin frame looked, dangling there in a harness. What was more interesting was the man’s face. 

_          Hadn’t he had part of his face missing?  _ Rick thought back to the deep, muscle-red valley he had seen butted up against the edge of where the black matter had writhed. He had been absolutely certain that he had seen the meat beneath the man’s skin at the time. However, there was no indication that there was ever an injury there at all now. In fact, nowhere on the man’s visible body could Rick see even a hint of damage. 

         That’s when Rick felt certain that whatever the stranger had been through, the  _ Doctors _ had undone the damage. 

_          Was that what they meant when they said “almost ready”?  _ Rick’s mind began to venture over the facts, and he didn’t like the conclusions he drew from his research. His mind flashed back to Morten, swallowing the mouthful of Rick’s seed with eager greed and satisfaction. Sanchez shuddered down to his core.  _ So, it’s like I suspected. They heal you, then they feed off of you.  _

         “I’m sure the reconstruction will be done soon, Brothers,” said Mortimer. 

         “How much  _ longer _ ?”

         “Don’t be so impatient, Morten,” snapped Morthius. Yes, he was the one with the deepest voice. The one with the surgical tools on his belt. 

         “Why are you being so-so mean?” Morten gave Morthius a pooched-lip pout, then snickered venomously.

         Morthius growled and Rick saw his fingertips tease the handle of his bone saw. “I know you’re not  _ so  _ hungry.”

         Suddenly, Morten looked quite dangerous himself. He shot Morthius a dirty look and hissed, “I wouldn’t go making accusations like that,  _ brother _ . That’s a very serious charge, and I’d be happy to  _ defend _ myself.” 

         The Gunslinger was sure now that Morten’s escapades last night had been an illegal action. It also gave Rick some evidence to support the theory that these demons might be related to the succubi class. That was something to go on, at least, for if—or, rather, when—he found his strength again. 

         “Even Mortimer knows you are a greedy little pig, Morten,” seethed Morthius.

         “Say that again!” barked Morten.

         “Greedy. Fat. Pig.”

         “Enough!”

         Even Rick’s bones ached at the commanding sound of Mortimer’s voice. The others all crouched down, fearful of their leader. Rick took note of this habit as well. He wondered if killing all of the nurses would be necessary, or if taking out Mortimer would topple the entire tower, so to speak. 

         When Mortimer spoke again, he regained his usual composure. “We musn’t bicker here. This is a place of healing, after all.” Something like mockery tinged the last statement, but Rick couldn’t decide if he was imprinting on the elder Brother or not. Then, Mortimer moved to the stranger’s side and checked his legs. These were the only parts of him that were still covered in the shivering, black stuff. Mortimer seemed to part a small section of the mass to have a peek at the skin beneath. The man moaned, as if even the smallest exposure caused him a great deal of discomfort. Mortimer smiled boldly, the most honest expression of delight Rick had seen from him, and said joyfully, “Yes! He is nearly there. His progress has been slow, but he is healing up nicely.”

         Then, suddenly, Mortimer’s eyes lifted and locked with Rick’s. 

         There was an instant where Rick felt the fear of his youth strangle the air out of his lungs. It had been many years since he had felt petrified by another creature’s gaze alone, but in that moment the demon Mortimer had the hunter frozen down to his soul. As the monster’s smile broadened, the icy chill spread throughout Rick’s body, and he felt sure that he was looking into the eyes of death itself.

         Thankfully, the panic subsided before the eldest Brother and his minions skirted their way over to his side. 

         “Good morning, Mr. Smithy.” Mortimer offered Rick a false warm bidding. 

         Rick, not wanting to stir up trouble in his state, gave a weak smirk and then relaxed again. “Morning to you lot too.” He gently moved his head back to the other side, partially to ease his physical state and partially to keep all four brothers in his view. Morten and Morthius had slipped a little too far to the right for his comfort. “Did I hear the man’s healing up?”

         It was clear that Mortimer suspected Rick of hearing more than he was letting on, but he let it pass gracefully. “Why, yes. Jerry, the patient we were visiting, had extensive damage. We were awfully worried for his well-being. After all, there is never any guarantee someone in such a condition  _ will _ recover. You understand, there is only so much even the most talented doctors can do.” There it was again, the undertones of mockery. Rick was sure of it. “But blessed are the children under His watchful gaze. It seems Jerry will make a full recovery. Amen!”

         The other three nurses issued a unanimous, “Amen.” 

         “That’s good to hear,” Rick said. He would have felt relieved by the news, but he figured that the man wouldn’t be waking up soon enough to matter. Rick glanced around then, as though he had only just noticed the missing fifth member of their group. “Where’s Morty?”

         Morten broke out into a fit of giggles, drawing Rick’s attention his way. “Brother Morty is in the chapel house on the hill, praying for serenity and patience.” He seemed to think this was incredibly amusing. “Seems like you have the poor fool wrapped around your finger, don’t you, Rick?”

         “That is enough out of you, Brother Morten!” Mortimer snapped, jolting the flirtatious copy into quiet once more.

         “Sorry, Big Brother,” was all Morten said before he looked away from Rick altogether.

         “I see. I hope I didn’t do anything to offend the boy,” Rick said. He feigned like he didn’t care to read Morten’s meaning.

         Mortimer rewarded him with a small sigh. “Never mind Brother Morten. He mistakes the young one’s prayers for enlightenment for more sinful confusions.” His next words were laced with a threatening undertone. “The chapel is where the devoted can speak to the Maker in private. One of our cut goes there when they have need to get close to Him, or to  _ repent _ .” 

         “I see,” Rick said, following it with a faux thoughtful hum. He worried what the truth about the so-called “chapel” was, but he decided to move on to other matters of curiosity. “Hey, Mortimer?”

         “ _ Brother  _ Mortimer,” Mortimer offered. “If you please.”

         “Right. Sorry.” It took everything in Rick not to throw verbal daggers then, but he held his tongue and continued in a somewhat drowsy tone. “What  _ is  _ all that?” He realized that he wasn’t speaking clearly and tried again. “On Jerry? What is the black stuff on his legs?”

         Mortimer’s eyes narrowed, and Rick thought he saw the demon’s natural red show through in his irises. Then he smiled and disregarded Rick’s question with the flick of a thin wrist and a light shrug. “You needn't worry about that, sir.” His eyes grew large then, as though something had just occurred to him. His smile softened, though the facade brought the Gunslinger no comfort, and he said, “You should rest now. Your body needs your patience to heal properly. Breakfast will be in soon, sir.”

         The demon’s words held the power of suggestion, Rick was certain of it now. He felt himself grow instantly more exhausted again. As the nurses started to fade out of sight, Rick watched them exit the tent through watery vision. He told his subconscious to remember the details, to go over them and try to sort out the nature of Mortimer and his kins’ talents. It was uncommon for him to be so easily manipulated. However, no amount of effort could keep him from drifting into sleep once more.

 

         In and out. In and out. Rick’s entire day was a nonsensical rollercoaster of soup and melding realities. He never once felt fully awake. Even when he was certain he was being spoon-fed another drugged meal by one of the real nurses, he wasn’t able to trust that judgement. The ashberry root mixed in the chicken broth made it impossible to believe anything. His dreams mimicked portions of the real world, showing him the interior of the tent and the monsters who serviced him so they could eventually service themselves. So it was that regardless of the state of his consciousness, he always felt heavy and bloated and swaddled in a cocoon of exhausted paranoia. 

         It was never Morty, not when his brain was more functional, at least. Mortavier, Morten, and Mortimer were the ones who came in to feed him his breakfast, lunch, and supper, respectively. As the oldest brother had promised, the youngest never returned that day. Of course, Rick dreamt that he had come in, more than once, but things always divulged into fictional scenarios that melted down with the rise of Rick’s eyelids. 

         Late in the evening, hours past when dinner had been provided and not long out for when breakfast would likely be expected, the demon hunter stirred from his sloppy montage of bleeding worlds. There was a chill in the air that felt surprisingly nice against his warm flesh. Though the tent kept most of the warmth inside, the tickle of the cold helped Rick keep hold of his awakeness. He used it to hoist himself into a reasonable state of mind once more. 

         “You seem mighty alert,” an effeminate voice said. 

         Rick’s eyes focused in the dark, searching the area he suspected the sound had come from. He noticed Summer’s silhouette before any details became clear. There was a candle set at the far end of the tent by the closed door flaps. It made the adjustment easier than pure darkness would have, but its single point of flickering light wasn’t strong enough to reach through the entire interior.

         “Summer,” Rick said with some honest enthusiasm. “You’re awake.”

         “Yeah,” she offered, along with a wide-mouthed yawn. “They keep us docile, but after sleeping day in and day out, even whatever they put in the soup can’t keep my eyes closed.” She laughed, an ironic and sad sound. “Maybe I’m starting to get used to it.”

         “Why do you think they use the ashberry root, though? We’re wounded. It’s not like we’d have the strength to leave on our own anyway.” Rick was not naturally a very intimate person. His life had hardened him in a lot of ways, but he wanted to speak with Summer, another human being, even if he couldn’t offer her any real comfort.

         The redhead turned slowly, adjusting herself on her cot to better face the Gunslinger. Then she said, “I don’t know. Maybe so we don’t try to escape? I think they want us to get better. I think they need us to be healthy before they….” 

         Rick sympathized with the young woman. She didn’t want to have to say it, and she didn’t really need to. “No judgement?” he asked.

         Summer gave the older man an inquisitive expression, then she nodded slowly and offered him a response. “No judgement.”

         “One of them came to me the other night. It—” He paused. Suddenly, he wasn’t certain if there was a tactful way to explain what happened. “It  _ drank _ my semen.” He figured it was best to be blunt but not overly graphic. A frozen shudder ran from the top of his head to his toes as the image of Morten in his true form expanded in clarity inside Rick’s mind. 

         “That’s…” Summer audibly wretched in her own mouth a little. Rick heard her swallow before she continued. “I’m terribly sorry, Rick. No one should have to suffer through something that wretched. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Not with one of  _ those  _ things.” 

         Rick felt relief. Receiving a bit of understanding from the woman was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected. He had honestly just wanted to confirm something with the girl. 

         “Has one of them ever…” Again. Delicacy was needed, but Rick was unsure how to approach the topic gracefully. “Have they ever touched you before? In any way like that?”

         Summer’s eyes blew out wide as though she had some kind of realization. The expression on her face made Rick’s stomach churn and tie itself in knots. Then the redhead appeared more thoughtful. She seemed to consider things for a long while, then finally—much to Rick’s relief—she shook her head. 

         “No. I don’t think they have. I’m guessing they don’t like pretty young girls quite as much as they do handsome old men.” There was a nervous and requesting smile on her face. Rick realized that Summer had likely been a fiesty one in better circumstances. He hoped he’d see her to her family someday soon and get to see the woman’s zest for himself. So he laughed a little, keeping still enough to not shake loose whatever hissed behind him, and returned her gesture in kind. “I have heard them, though,” Summer continued, “doing things to the other one.”

         “Jerry?” Rick asked.

         “Yeah.” She nodded. “At night, when they think the rest of us are all asleep, they come in and they do things to the men. Maybe they did it to other women. Maybe I’m just not their taste.” Summer had tried to make light of the situation again. Rick was amazed by how strong her spirit was to, after everything she’d been though, still have so much freedom of emotion. “He used to be quite the chatterbox. Jerry, I mean. Even on the drugs. That was back when his brother was here too. Before they took him.”

         “His brother?” This sparked Rick’s curiosity even more. He had a soft spot for brothers. Though his only brother had been Mickey Schuanch, who wasn’t blood related in the traditional sense, Rick found that the bond between brothers was something without comparison. So it pained him in a way he tried not to let show to think that the man hanging in the back of the medical tent could have lost his.

         “Yes,” she said. “Gary. He was nice. Brave. Kept Jerry calm, most of the time.” Her words made Rick wonder just how long she had spent with them. “But they took Gary about a week before they brought you in. After he was gone, Jerry fell apart. They started keeping him sedated all the time after that.”

_          So that’s why _ , Rick thought.  _ He’d be too much of a hassle to keep conscious.  _

         That was at least one mystery solved.

         “We need to get out of here.” Rick felt motivated all of a sudden. He was determined to fight through the drugs and the pain and find a way to get the three of them to safety. He couldn’t stop thinking that the poor man, Jerry, hadn’t even been allowed to properly come to terms with his brother’s death, much less mourn. It was right. It was decent. And what of Summer? She had compassion. No good mortal soul was without it, and she deserved better than to have to stay one more night in this hellish hospice. 

         Rick began to squirm in his bindings. The hissing stopped and the pain returned. At first, it was blinding. It seared splotches of white and red onto his vision and made his teeth grind in a horrible way. Then, after a moment more of shifting in place, he realized the pain wasn’t so terrible after all. It was bad, of course, but he was a Gunslinger! He had once ridden miles on a galloping horse with a cursed spear running through his abdomen. If he could bear that kind of suffering and live, he could surely pull himself free of this mess.

         “Stop it!” Summer shouted as quietly as one could. “What are you doing? Are you crazy? Save your strength, stupid! You’re not healed yet!”

         Rick kept going until he heard the tears in Summer’s voice. That made him stop. He looked, and she had tried to pull herself toward him but was now holding her stomach. Rick realized then that he had never seen the girl’s injuries. She had no black mass covering any visible portion of her body. He hadn’t considered the kind of damage she had suffered. Not really. 

         Long white strands of hair sunk into the sweat now coating Rick’s neck and forehead. The ashberry root, in tandem with his wounds, seemed to have taken more out of him than he had given proper credit. He realized then that it wouldn’t matter if he managed to get out of the binds. He’d still be quite useless on his own. 

         Summer recovered and relaxed by lying back down on her cot. Rick noticed that she was breathing heavily but trying to make it seem less intense. After a moment, she caught her breath and offered Rick her attention again. He too had settled back into his usual resting position. The black mounted behind him also found peace. The hissing returned, and his pain ebbed back into obscurity. 

         “It won’t do you any good, you know? Not until you’ve healed up more, at least.” Summer’s expression was sympathetic and understanding.

         “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just—” Rick’s words cut off. He didn’t know what words to finish the statement with. He  _ wanted  _ so many things. He had so many reasons for needing to escape.

         “No, sir. I get it. Believe me, I do.” 

         Summer sighed and looked up at the ceiling of the tent, a part of the room Rick could not clearly see no matter how he turned his head. He was destined to only look down towards the dirt, at least so long as he remained in that damned sling. It was an odd feeling, but Rick found that he missed looking up at the night sky more than most things. For that reason, he envied the girl, for at least she was facing the right direction to pretend. 

         A moment of near silence filled the tent. Only the cries of the Doctors in the dark rang out as the two wrestled with their individual inner contemplations. Rick had almost fallen back asleep when Summer’s voice stirred him back awake. 

         “The little one is nicer than the others.”

         “Huh?” Rick focused his eyes on Summer once more. 

         “The small one,” she clarified. “The one that’s sweet on you.”

         Rick knew who she was talking about, and her statement made his guts turn in an odd and non-painful sort of way. It made his sack tingle and his face feel a bit too warm. “What the hell do you mean,  _ sweet on me _ ?”

         His embarrassment must have been in his voice, because Summer giggled—a much more pleasant sound than when the demons produced it. That only made it worse for the Gunslinger. “I overheard your conversation,” she said. “That girly boy was all about you. You flustered him pretty good.”

         Rick felt like he was the one flustered. He couldn’t explain how wild Morty made him feel, but hearing Summer say that she thought the boy might feel similarly was altogether too much. The grown man felt his skin fizzle with electric heat, as powerful as his fever but less sickening. He found himself wondering if there could be any legitimacy to the claim.

_          Why does everything in this place make me feel like a child?  _ Rick grumbled and wished he could adjust his position without so much effort or suffering. 

         “I hadn’t meant to,” he finally said. That was a lie, a partial one at least. He had been attempting to get on Morty’s good side, and his method for doing so had been a mix of elder-to-younger respect and flirtation. Still, he wasn’t comfortable admitting that he had intentionally flirted with a demon, no matter how human the boy might seem. There were just too many forbidden factors.

         “Well,” Summer started. She gave a wide yawn before she continued, saying almost giddily, “Well, kudos, Gramps, because it worked.”

         “I just said I didn’t do—” 

         Summer didn’t wait for him to finish. “If I had that kind of influence, I’d use it.” 

         All at once, the tone of the conversation changed. Rick’s ears burned, but for an entirely different reason. He locked his gaze on Summer’s expression, what he could make out of it in the dim light. “What do you mean?”

         “I’m just saying. I’d take advantage of my situation. He can walk. He usually brings the food. He knows more than we do.”

         Rick mused over that information. He had been trying to manipulate Morty into favoring him. Hell, it had been his intention to use the boy to his advantage all game, but there was something else there for Rick. Something in the way Morty  _ was  _ that made the older man weak for him too. 

_          Hadn’t Morten said Morty was in trouble because of me?  _ Rick thought.  _ What if he had asked to let me go?  _ A dramatic scene of self-sacrifice played out in Sanchez’s mind. He imagined Morty going to Mortimer and confessing that he thought they should let the newcomer go, and the eldest Brother becoming furious at the notion of the boy’s betrayal. Maybe Mortimer locked Morty away somewhere to help him “get his priorities straight.” 

         Rick blinked and mentally shook his head. Fantasies and assumptions weren’t useful. _ A good hunter never assumes what he can prove.  _

         “I’m not sure about that,” Rick said. “But I somehow doubt that he—“

         The soft sound of snoring caught Rick’s words in his throat. He smiled softly as he realized Summer had been captured by the ashberry root.

         “Good night, sweety,” he whispered, even though he knew she could no longer hear him. Soon after, he too drifted to sleep. The redhead had been right. There was no use in pushing his body until he had healed. Rest was the fastest way to escape for now.

 

         The following morning, Rick woke to the smell of the familiar soup and the feeling of something hot and moist pressing to the flesh of his inner thigh. It excited him and frightened him at the same time. Morten’s lustful image flashed behind Rick’s eyes before they opened and searched the area beneath him. 

         Sunrise had the inner tent painted in a mix of soft golds and deep purples. The clearing of daylight was still several minutes away, but the illumination was enough so that Rick could see Morty clearly beneath his own hanging form. The boy was in his pure-white gown, apron, and habit. He seemed to sense Rick’s attention because he suddenly stopped what he was doing and gazed up at Rick with those large emerald eyes of his. 

         “What are you—” Rick tried to ask Morty what he was doing, specifically with his arm outstretched and his wet hand between Rick’s thighs, but his throat was too dry. He had a bad case of the morning cottonmouth, a common symptom of both mornings and ingesting ashberry root. 

         Either way, Morty seemed to understand what Rick was inquiring about—either that, or he hadn’t expected the man up for some time—because he quickly pulled his hand back and stood up straight as an arrow. Rick was simultaneously relieved and disappointed to see a damp washcloth being strangled in the nurse’s right fist. The boy appeared angry, almost. Wanting to chuck the soggy towel at Rick’s face. Then, he calmed visibly and took in a deep breath. He let the sigh hold in his chest before it departed, shifting the fabric of Rick’s gown and tickling his chest. 

         “I was washing you,” Morty said with determination.

         “All right,” Rick said. “Thanks.”

         “That’s all.” Morty  _ was _ flustered, it seemed, but Rick still wasn’t entirely sure why, yet. 

         “Okay. Sounds fair.” Rick gave the boy a smile, but the simple, innocent gesture only seemed to rile the boy up even more. 

         “It’s p-punishment, you know. I’m not doing it because I want to.” But, despite his words, Morty looked away, turning his head and eyes from the dangling man. In that moment, Rick was certain of what he was dealing with.

         Rick grinned. “Lucky me. Sorry, though. Can’t imagine it’s much fun, washing an old gunman like myself.”

         Morty’s cheeks and ears flushed a pale, rosy color. His eyes shifted towards Rick, though, and then his pretty face followed. His eyes were narrowed into disapproving slits at first, judging Rick. The man supposed he deserved at least that much, but he was surprised when Morty sat back down on the cot and began washing the pale legs dangling before him. Now it was Rick who felt embarrassed and turned his gaze.

         Things were mostly quiet between the two of them as Morty sponge-bathed his charge. He was rough in some areas, more gentle in others, but regardless how he moved Rick’s limbs, the hissing never vanished or grew irate, as it did when Rick moved himself. Instead, the sound echoed constant and true, possibly even happier sounding, as the nurse worked. 

         Once Morty finished with Rick’s lower half—he had either already cleaned the rest of him or wasn’t going to now that Rick was awake—he put the bowl of hot water and sponge off to the side of the cot. Rick worried it would spill when Morty moved, but no amount of shuffling from the boy seemed to affect it, as though he were weightless on top of the sheets.

         Morty was about to move off the bed again when Rick asked bluntly, “Do you plan on killing me, Morty?”

         The Gunslinger had no real expectations for how Morty would respond to the question, but he kept a keen eye on the boy as and after he asked it. What came next surprised him.

         Morty’s brows furrowed and his lips pressed tightly together. A thin layer of moisture built up in his eyes, making Rick worry he might have been wrong about Morty all this time. The man had never seen a demon cry, not really, and so a part of him thought that if this boy could manage saltwater tears, then maybe he wasn’t like the others after all. Maybe he was in the process of being turned into whatever they were, cultivated in a way. Perhaps he was, or had recently been, human. 

         However, the sadness was replaced by a scowl and then a dangerous leer almost as suddenly as it had come. Rick should have been scared, especially after the boy stood on the cot—making him a head taller than Rick in the sling—and grabbed the older man’s hair,  pulled it and his head back. The jolt caused a disruption in the hissing and brought pain, but Rick never flinched, and he locked eyes with the boy working so hard to be intimidating. It was working, but Rick felt a sense of sureness he didn’t dare question.

         “Are you asking me  _ if _ ,” he cooed dangerously. “Or  _ when _ ?”

         Rick felt his body growing aroused, even against his orders. The boy’s grip was unnaturally strong, unmoving even as Rick could feel tension through this body, like he might be lifted from the straps that held him and hoisted into the open air by his hair. The smallest of the Brothers had inhuman strength to spare. Still, Rick wasn’t properly scared. Impressed, but not scared. Not more than a little brought on by his repressed common instinct.

         “That hurts,” Rick said. He kept his tone even and his eyes on Morty’s. Something crossed the boy’s mind then. Rick saw it, but he couldn’t identify it. Not yet. Not for sure. 

         “You’ve seen what we are, haven’t you?” Morty practically growled the words. “I bet—I’d bet a whole bag of coin that pervert Morten came in here, didn’t he?” That notion seemed to fuel a terrible rage built off of an awful sadness in Morty. His teeth gnashed together, and his lips pulled up in a snarl Rick didn’t mean to find so attractive.

         Morty, it seemed, had cuspids of his own, but unlike the others who hid their terrible viper fangs with magic, Morty’s were smaller. His canines were twice the length they should have been, if he were human anyway, and a bit pointier too.  _ Nubs _ , Rick inwardly mused, compared to the four-inch-plus things protruding from Mortimer and his clan’s gums, but still signs of the boy’s demonic nature.

         “Maybe I’ll kill you and save  _ them  _ the trouble. Ss that what you’re thinking? That’s what you think of me as, right? A monster? _ Just like them!? _ ”

         His earlier assumption of Morty had deemed the boy just that, a boy. A teenager. Regardless if he were human or not, the way his emotions flared reminded Rick gravely of his own defensive youth. What he saw now was a scared, frightened boy, who had been somehow forced into a life he neither wanted nor enjoyed. He had the fangs and strength of a killer, but past the anger in his eyes, Rick could only sense shame and fear.

         “No,” the Gunslinger said calmly. “I don’t think you’re anything like them at all.”

         He’d been right, or the creature that stood before him was a sadistic chameleon of emotion, because the moment the words fell from Rick’s mouth, Morty’s face lit up a deep ruby blush and the anger had been snuffed out. 

         Morty let Rick’s hair go and jumped back off the cot and onto the ground. His gown and apron lightly billowed from the fall before settling back over his legs. He clutched the large, silver bell around his neck, silencing it. Then he stood there, staring wide-eyed at Rick with a stunned expression that didn’t change for a long moment.

         “Why?” Morty finally asked. He regained his composure for the most part, and tilted his head slightly to one side, as though the change in angle could help him see Rick’s intentions more clearly. “Why did you say that?”

         “Because it’s true.”

         Anger returned to Morty’s features, but it was the lower end of anger, just barely concealing a young man’s breakdown. “Liar!” He spat the word. “You think I won’t kill you if you s-s-say something stupid like that? Huh?”

         “That’s not why.” Even with all the commotion, whatever was on Rick’s back never seemed too terribly disturbed with Morty so near. The Gunslinger wondered about this fact, but saved it for later. Regardless, it meant there was no pain too unbearable, even before the hissing grew to its usual intensity once more.

         Morty’s shoulders lifted, his fists both clenched tightly, defensively. “Then why?” His voice grew louder. “Why would you—you—?” He growled and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m exactly like them. We are the same.”

         “I don’t think so.” Rick’s patience left Morty without his, it seemed.

         “What the hell would you know, anyway, old man? You’re just a-a-a….” He seemed to struggle to find a decent insult or demeaning fact. His eyes even trailed along Rick’s hanging form. 

         The white-haired man could feel the nurse’s gaze burning holes through his white robes, and he felt that intense heat starting to rise inside him again. He only hoped his cock wasn’t as erect as it felt; otherwise, it wouldn’t take much for Morty to suss out that Rick’s body had devious intention. He didn’t want to have to explain that he wasn’t trying to be a pervert. He just, for some reason, really liked the phantom feeling of Morty’s glare trailing over his form.

         “Look, I’ve hunted enough monsters to know when I’m looking at one.” Rick had a dangerous admission in that statement. If the Brothers didn’t know he was a demon slayer just by his guns and attire, then this one might have an idea now. That could spell doom for Rick, but—again—he had to trust his gut. “And you’re no monster. Not yet, at least.”

         Something in Morty clicked. Rick could see it happen. The boy fell silent. His arms dropped casually to his sides, and his fingers gently kneaded the fabric of his skirt as he stood there, wide-eyed still but now contemplative.

         Rick waited too, hoping beyond prayer that he hadn’t made the wrong choice in words or trust. He was left in his self-made dungeon of insecurities too, as Morty’s gaze softened. Then he picked up the water bowl, turned slowly, and walked towards the exit.

         Rick’s heart started to race, and panic flooded his veins. He neither wanted to be left without a response nor did he want Morty to leave his side. He felt attached to the little demon, regardless of his true intentions, and all of that anxiety built up into a cracked, “Wait!”

         Rick coughed, spit and air having swapped poorly in his esophagus when he had inhaled to yell. The choking brought momentary agony as he shook the Doctors loose, then he and they settled back into place, and Rick was left with watery eyes he could not safety rub dry.

         He had thought Morty had just left while he coughed, but then he heard the boy say, “I’ll be back this afternoon.” His words brought Rick a strange bolt of pleasure, though the tone behind the words had been distant and thoughtful. Rick blinked, and tears rolled free from his eyes. He could see Morty looking directly at him, but the boy gasped and turned away, shaken by the eye contact. “If I can,” he added quietly, then he dashed off, almost running as he darted out of the tent.

 

         Later that evening, hours after Rick incoherently took his lunch from a silent Mortavier, Rick had been enjoying some light conversation with Summer. She had told him a little more about herself, how she had an aunt she’d like to live with for a while if she got out alive, and a bit about the brothers, Gary and Jerry, from what they had told her. Apparently, their ma had been a real dragon, and their father was a steam engine that ran on liquor and curses. They lived alone together and did their work as traveling handymen. They’d been part of the caravan Summer and her mother had been with before things went to hell. Rick had wanted to hear more, but the girl fell asleep before the story could be continued. So, Rick had been left to his swirling thoughts for over half an hour before he was awoken by the sound of the tent’s flaps parting. 

         It was Morty, to Rick’s surprise, that came in with soup. He left Summer’s bowl near the foot of her bed and then traveled right up to Rick with his supper. 

         “I thought I wouldn’t see you tonight.” Rick smiled weakly. The effects of the last bowl had just barely lifted, and he was feeling mighty groggy. He caught the boy’s fleeting gaze and quickly added, “But I’m glad to see you.”

         Morty worried his lower lip before he offered Rick his first spoonful. “Eat it,” he ordered, but his stern tone didn’t match his searching eyes. 

         Without worrying about the drugs, Rick opened his mouth as wide as he could manage. The meals were decent, but the meat and rice were scarce in what was mostly poisoned broth, so he was never really filled to the point that he wasn’t aching for his next meal. It was a dirty but clever trick on the part of the nurses. His stomach growled, and his saliva built up as the spoon came closer to his lips. When the liquid ran over his tongue, Rick’s eyes widened just a hair. He rolled the substance around for a moment, analyzing the flavor. 

_          There’s less ashberry this time _ , Rick thought.  _ Was that on purpose, or…? _

         “I couldn’t spare you,” Morty said. “I can’t, anyway. Even if I wanted to, you know.”

         Rick’s sleepy mind couldn’t quite figure out what Morty was saying, then it hit him. “You make the soup?” 

         “No,” Morty said plainly. “Mortimer usually makes the soup. But the a-ashberry root isn’t put in until last. So it doesn’t dissolve and become useless during the c-cooking process.”

_          He’s stuttering more than usual, _ Rick noted.  _ Is he nervous? _

         “It doesn’t matter,” Morty said, shaking his head. “I put in less, but they’ll kn-know if you don’t have it in you.”

         “Are you okay, Morty?”

         Morty waited to speak, feeding Rick another couple of mouthfuls. Then, with his eyes lazily following the spoon in his own hand. He took in a deep breath and sighed before starting, the way some men did before they softened and their tones changed their habits. It’s just what most people did, in Rick’s experience, when they were about to tell him a long story about their life. Rick decided to keep quiet and eat when the utensil was presented. His eyes focused on Morty’s face. He watched his expressions closely, letting Morty’s words soak into his brain.

         “The others are in the chapel,” the boy began. “They’re  _ praying _ .” That was a lie, and it was meant to be clear. “I haven’t been with them very long. Just the last two cycles.” Rick understood he meant about two years. Most people counted full turn of seasons, or “cycles,” rather than the years, but it was all the same thing. “Before that, I lived with my mother.”

         The Gunslinger watched the pain of memory and loss tense the boy’s spine. It made his jaw clench and his grip on the spoon tighten, though these were subtle shifts. Rick tried to imagine Morty’s mother, but it was difficult to decide if “mother” meant the same thing to Morty’s species or not. Was it just another creature that looked like them? Was Morty’s heritage somehow different? Had she birthed the other hellions as well? That seemed unlikely but not impossible. He had so many questions, but he hung there quietly and waited for Morty to give him what answers he would. 

         “She did her best to take care of me, to shelter me, to keep me from this––this  _ hellish  _ life.” The boy had to still himself after that seethed remark. Morty’s hand rested on the bowl then, not lifting or moving. Rick followed Morty’s gaze down into the swirl of pale broth inside the bowl. Calmer, he continued, “She was one of the bearers, women kept and raised to produce the offspring of Hell itself. She was their last, and when she gave birth to me, she stole me away from Mortimer and his pack of heathens.”

         Rick was starting to get a clearer picture now. So Morty was at least partially human. There was another kind of demon who used human women to spawn their clan, though the women were virgins, chosen at random and raped. What Morty was saying sounded more like a cult or domestication of females, loyal to the monsters they served. Except that Morty’s mother had left. 

         “But why’d she take you? Why then?” Rick’s question flared Morty’s temper, but the boy didn’t lash out at Rick. He only spoke more passionately, angrier, obviously still carrying around a fierce grudge. 

         “Because she was a fool! She knew she couldn’t survive without the clan, but she left anyway!” Morty bit his lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but certainly hard enough to hurt. He quieted down and glanced up at Rick. He met his eyes and leered into them. “You were wrong when you said that I was different. I––I’m not different. I’m worse.”

         There were tears forming in his eyes. Such honest suffering. Remorse. Regret. Fear. All very human sensations and all showing on his features. Rick’s defenses lowered without his approval, despite Morty’s confession. 

         “She was ill, and she couldn’t keep hunting for me. She kept me stupid. She kept me hidden away and ignorant of––of the truth. Of what I  _ am. _ But she couldn’t do it. She was sick and dying, so—” Morty turned his head away, his eyes angry now. “—instead of leaving me out there to die, she brought me back here. She made me come back. She  _ gave  _ me to them and asked them for forgiveness.” He scoffed. “She asked  _ Mortimer _ for forgiveness. Then she just left me here.”

         Rick suspected that she hadn’t just simply left, but he didn’t think it appropriate to openly speculate about that. 

         Morty looked back at Rick then, a darkness in his expression that warned Rick to be on guard, though what good that would have done him was anyone’s guess. “ _ She  _ abandoned me.  _ She _ left me here. It was  _ Mortimer _ who taught me how to live.  _ Mortimer  _ who cleared it all up. Who I am.  _ What _ I am. What I’m supposed to  _ do _ .” Rick recognized when someone was trying to convince themselves of something. “They’re my family. My real family. So you see…”

         The boy grinned, an evil thing that gave Rick the impression of horror and hollowness. Scary, but not for the reasons the maker was using it for. The older man frowned, but continued to watch Morty closely as he finished up. 

         “I  _ am _ one of them,  _ Rick _ .” Morty practically spat the man’s name. “I am a monster, just like my Brothers. Worst still because of these  _ accursed  _ bells.” Rick’s eyes shifted to the white bells in Morty’s ears. “They are my family now. And––and I’m…” Morty lost his gusto. His hackles lowered, and he slumped down onto the cot on his rear and knees. He stared down at the bowl on his lap and held back tears. Rick could hear it in his shivering sound. “I’m important to them.”

         Rick felt like Morty had been holding in all of that for a long time, but he could tell that Morty hadn’t said everything he wanted to. There was more that needed to be said, shouted out at the top of his lungs, even, but that would have to wait until the boy decided he was ready. Though Rick was never one to claim any sort of helpfulness where such matters were concerned, he did offer Morty a piece of advice he’d favored his whole life. 

         “Family doesn’t mistreat each other. Not and mean it. Real family looks out for one another, and wants what’s best for you, even if they’re not always honest or wise about it.”

         Morty looked back up at Rick. His eyes were angry again, and his mouth opened to say something defensive. However, he never got that far. 

         Rick watched the boy’s mouth close slowly and his eyes shift nervously as he worked over his own thoughts. It was clear how uncomfortable he was. It was an uncomfortable situation for them both. However, Rick got the feeling that Morty needed someone––an adult figure perhaps––to help him sort out which of his emotions he should tango with.

         “I told you,” Rick said. He looked towards the tent door to make sure there were no newcomers or shadows beyond, then he stared down at Morty and spoke quietly but clearly. “I can tell how being around them makes you antsy, lad.” He used the term caringly, not meaning to come off condescending. “I know you enjoy their company as much as I enjoy fly soup, at best. I don’t need you to lie to me. I don’t care one way or another.” He realized how cruel that sounded, so added, “Between us two, I don’t care much for them either.”

         That earned Rick a small smile. The Gunslinger noted the sweet-natured, human reaction and gave one in return. 

         Then Rick’s expression turned sympathetic. Suddenly, he felt like he  _ was  _ speaking to a young boy. The moment distinctly reminded him of a situation he had found himself in with another child, some years before. “Do they mistreat you?”

         He thought if he could get Morty to admit it, that maybe something could be done for it. Perhaps they could come up with a plan to deal with the Brothers and their evil together. Sadly, Morty didn’t say anything. He just stared into Rick’s eyes and thought privately, deeply, about something Rick could only guess. 

         It was clear to Rick that they did abuse him in some form or another. He’d been sure of it from the moment he had laid his eyes on the kid, but Morty confirmed nothing. He simply stood, evened out his expression, and told Rick, “If I show you, you mustn't scream.”

         Rick’s eyes grew large, and he wondered what in the world Morty could be about to show him. He thought, perhaps, that Morty  _ did  _ have some kind of hideous demonic form hidden under his soft, perfect complection. The thought made RIck’s stomach knot, though his expression remained steady, and he nodded his head to confirm that he wouldn’t raise his voice.

         Nothing in Rick’s imagination readied him for what he saw next. Morty stood after leaving the soup behind. He suddenly looked incredibly serene, and his hands clasped the bell around his neck. He then lifted his chin and tilted his head back just a little. The boy’s long, smooth throat became exposed to Rick, catching the hunter in a unique kind of trap. Then, Morty began to gently shake his head back and forth. It was an almost amusing gesture, until Rick heard the rest of the room go completely silent.

         Not since awaking in the tent had Rick been without the company of the hissing dark masses in the room. Even when he had upset his own healers, Jerry’s had continued making their low sounds in the background. The motion of Morty’s head made the small white bells chime loudly. Their jingling replaced the chorus of hisses, and Rick worried briefly that his end might be on its way, though that was just the paranoid portion of his personality warning him to get ready. 

         All at once, Rick heard a fluttering comotion to his left. He turned his head to the other side, his forehead rubbing along the smooth strap holding it in place as he did, and gawked at the sight before him. Jerry was completely visible now. What had been roosting on his legs had taken flight and were now hovering all around the patient. 

         Dozens, maybe even a few hundred, small birds were flapping about and quickly shifting in the air. Then, Morty’s bells started to toll in a different pattern, and the black, fuzzy creatures started to sway gently in place, their wings beating to keep them aloft, but their fat, little bodies only rocking this way and that. 

         Then Morty’s bells changed again. Rick glanced over long enough to see that Morty changed the speed and angle at which he shook his head to make these sounds. Nearly all the tiny Doctors flew back down to Jerry’s legs and began to softly hiss once more. One of the weird beasts stayed airborne, however, and then flew over towards Rick and Morty. 

         When the thing landed on Morty’s outstretched hand, Rick realized that they weren’t birds at all. Rather, the furry critter appeared to be something more like a giant moth. Its body was the bulk of its form and was covered in a thick coat of wispy onyx fur. It had two enormous black eyes that reflected minute amounts of light that made them look like gemstones. Two giant antenna stuck out of its head. These were hairy too, but the thin, silky fur grew longer as it went up, making large fans on the top of each of the limbs. There were at least six little legs, made fat-looking by the puffs of fur lining their upper joints, with tiny little clawed toes. Then there were the wings. Extremely padded at the base of the wing with fur-like feathers, the four wings spread out of its body like a normal moth’s, but they were designed like no insect Rick had ever seen. Lightly fluffed upper edges reached out and became something like a bat wing, but the fleshy membrane had been replaced by the translucent, veiny texture of dragonfly wings. 

         “Well, isn’t that something special.” Rick didn’t know what else to say. It was weird, but honestly sort of cute. He was admittedly aware that there were a handful of those things crawling around all over his back. He thought he could feel hundreds of tiny clawed feet roaming about, but that was likely just his imagination. He hadn’t felt anything but pain or numbness back there for days. 

         “This is a Doctor,” Morty said, giving the little moth a soft, single-fingered stroke down its spine. “They are a part of us. They can heal people like you. Something in their spit––or something.” 

         It seemed Morty didn’t quite understand all the workings of his species yet. Rick wondered if any of the Brothers knew how the moths functioned or did what they did. He suddenly wished very badly that he wasn’t in the situation he was. He wanted to get ahold of one of the moths and dissect it, then another to watch it work. Was it a symbiotic relationship? Did Mortimer or the others give the moths something in return? Was it natural bonding, a spiritual contract, or were the months raised and trained to behave that way? Did the moths have a special saliva that pulled out infection and helped restore human cells? Or was it something else they produced doing the trick? 

         Being the sort Rick was, the role of Gunslinger didn’t stop at slaying or exorcising demons and other monsters. He was also a very curious man, interested in cataloging and experimenting with the dark forces he came in contact with. He was a member of the hunters that believed in research and the aid it could bring future generations. So, of course, he was extremely excited to see the moth. This was something Morty obviously hadn’t expected, though, as he was now looking at Rick with one eyebrow raised and a quirky smile lifting the right side of his lips. 

         “You’re not scared?” Morty asked.

         “Not really. Is it gonna bite?” 

         Morty laughed in disbelief. “Maybe. It could, I mean. They have teeth. Terrible, sharp little teeth.” His expression was cocky, playful almost now, and Rick decided that he liked it better the nurse’s more recent behavior.

         “Can I see?” Rick smirked, showing no fear in the face of his potential death. He thought maybe Morty and his kin were succubi or vampires, or something of that sort, and they fed off human fluids. Then the moths might eat through the bodies left behind. _ A perfect symbiotic relationship. _

         Morty rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “You’re an odd man, Rick.” He shook his head, and the moth took off and flew back towards the sleeping man in the corner. “I don’t––You know? I just don’t understand you.”

         “Thanks,” Rick offered. 

         Morty giggled, then caught himself and frowned. His tone became serious again. “They heal you, so they can have a bigger meal.”

         Rick didn’t let his good mood slip, though. “I’m grateful for the assistance, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not pay the bill.”

         Morty suddenly looked very melancholy. His aura was enough to pull Rick down, back to the ground floor of his mood. The two were both quiet for a moment, then Morty lifted the bowl and started to feed Rick again. 

         With the drop in atmosphere, Rick’s exhaustion returned full force. He kept his eyes open, his body obliging him, but only so it could finish its meal. 

         “If you don’t drug me, they’ll hurt you, won’t they?”

         Morty didn’t answer. Eventually, Rick finished his soup. 

         Rick had time to think during the meal, and as Morty readied to leave––apparently opting to come back later for Summer’s portion––Rick stopped the nurse by calling out to him. “Wait a minute, Morty.”

         Morty stopped and looked back at the older man. There was something wonderfully hopeful in his sad eyes. Rick felt a touch of guilt, but then he smiled softly and offered Morty the only comfort he could. 

         “I’m grateful,” he started, but there was a gruffness to his voice that he had to clear his throat to rid himself of. “I’m glad I met you.” He continued more smoothly, watching Morty’s fist wrap its fingers in the fabric of his skirt as he listened. “It’s––ahh––been a while. Since I’ve seen anyone so beautiful.” It had seemed like such a cool and easy thing to say before, but now that it was coming out of his mouth, Rick felt embarrassed again. “So, you know, I won’t be able to hold it against you. If the time comes.” Rick wanted to hide, but he couldn’t really even move. He kept a straight face, though. He’d been good at playing cards for coin, so he treated this the same way. “You gotta do you, lad. I get that.” He accidently managed one of his more favored expressions––favored by the ladies of towns he visited, for sure. “But I’d rather it just be the two of us til the lights go out, if you think old Brother would be all right with that.”

         Rick winked and he watched Morty stiffen all over. His spine straightened, and his cheeks turned deep red. It had been enough that his morbid joke hadn’t been lost on the boy, but Rick felt his own heart start to pound heavily in its cage when he glanced a peculiar disturbance in Morty’s skirt. It looked like the boy was trying to poke a hole in the white material, and for how fast Morty rushed to leave, Rick thought the boy might have if he’d been left under the older man’s gaze any longer. 

         A deep, growling chuckle escaped Rick, and he felt his body tire without consent. He wanted to stay awake a while longer, wanted to wait and see if Morty would return to feed Summer, wanted to hold onto what had happened for just a bit more time, but it was no use. With his sack half-swollen from the excitement, he disappeared back into the land of dreams. On his way down the rabbit hole, he repeated Morty’s name in his mind, hoping to trigger something more pleasant of a distraction. 


	4. The truth. The leaf. Fairwell, Jerry.

For the next week, Rick focused on healing. Most of the time, he just hung in his harness and slept. Every so often, Summer would be awake at the same time he was and they would speak. She’d talk about the caravan or her family; tell him about how her mother taught her how to wrangle wasteland-cattle and ride a horse; and how she had never been to the far edges of the world, but that she had always wanted to see the ocean. Other times, she’d tell stories of Jerry’s life with his brother, tales she had heard from Gary before he went missing and his brother lost his wit. However, the time Rick and his would-be granddaughter spent awake was short-lived; and, more than once, the stories had to be put off until later.

          Besides the occasional conversation, there were mealtimes. It was horrible to be served by one of the older Brothers of Aluria, but it was almost worse to be served by Morty himself. Since their chat a week before, Morty had been quieter, a bit more flighty, and visibly uneasy during their meetings.

          Other than just being distant, the Gunslinger also noticed a subtle shift in Morty’s physical stature. His peachy complexion had dimmed just a bit each time he came in. The rosy tint in his cheeks vanished first, then the boy’s palette washed out little by little. While Rick was starting to feel stronger and experienced less pain when he shifted, Morty seemed to grow sickly. Rick tried many times to reach out to the small nurse, to ask him if he was all right and inquire about the cause of his declining health, but the last time the subject was brought up, Morty made a small snarling sound and ordered Sanchez to let it go.

          Rick could do nothing to protest. He would have assumed the worst, that the others were torturing or starving Morty for some reason or another, but the demon hunter had noticed the other Brothers going through the same process of slow degeneration. In fact, the last meal Rick received confirmed something more horrible. His late lunch was brought forward by Mortimer himself, who seemed to Rick to be faring far worse than Morty, judging by the way his glamour sizzled and shifted in its clarity as he fed the patient. Even the leader was suffering from some sort of fatigue, and it left Big Brother in a foul mood. As Mortimer fed Rick, the demon’s eyes shifted nervously over Rick’s exposed areas of skin. He lapped at his lips as though there were no saliva in his mouth, and he looked dark and heavy around the eyes.

          Not being one to let an opportunity for mild attitude and information gathering to slip away untouched, Rick asked Mortimer if he and his coven were well. “I certainly hope it isn’t the desert fever that’s caught you nurses. We patients _need_ you, after all.”

          Mortimer replied in the most horrific way imaginable to Rick. He smiled. A wide grin spread his parted lips to the farthest reaches of his face and as they curled up towards his pointed little ears and the garnet base of his habit. His teeth showed through, poking out through the glamour a little, perhaps because they were all deadly pointed. The exaggerated, unnatural smile made it appear as though Mortimer could throw his jaws open like a real snake and take Rick’s entire head into his mouth. That concept chilled Sanchez. That smile urged him back into complacency.

          “How sweet you are to worry, sir, but fear not. We’ve merely been hard at work, and it’s been mighty hot outside this tent. No illness. None at all.” Mortimer’s pupils shrank to tiny black points in creamy brown pools then. He laughed once, a dry sound and a cruel one. “Though, when you’re right, you’re right. I think it’s about time we boys took some time for ourselves.”

          Rick knew that look. It was the stare of a starving predator. Mortimer, all of them, were at the end of some sort of feeding cycle, he was sure of it.

          “You should do that,” the Gunslinger suggested. “Maybe just take it easy for the next few days.”

          “Oh, pishposh,” Mortimer replied. He placed the back of a slender finger to Rick’s cheek and stroked the man’s face tenderly. For an instant, Rick thought the boy would jump him, but he kept his distance. “We just need a good, hearty meal and a decent night's sleep, and we’ll be right as rain, sir. Don’t you worry.”

          It didn’t matter how uncomfortable the encounter had made Rick. Not long after Mortimer had left with an empty bowl in hand, Rick had fallen asleep. The dose of ashberry root had been particularly powerful that time, and it had been an impossible battle to keep his eyes open after it hit his system.

          Late that evening, the old man was pulled from his dreamless sleep by his preferred nurse. Morty dabbed Rick’s face with a cold wet cloth repeatedly, not seeming to notice his patient’s slow return to the waking world. He worked cold water through Rick’s long hair, over his skin, and rinsed the cloth every few seconds to wash out some of the buildup of oils. Rick hung there and allowed it, grateful for the care.

          “You—you can’t know what it’s like,” Morty eventually said. It seemed he did know Rick was more or less awake. “Being here. Living with them. Doing what they want. I hate it.”

          Rick noticed only then that Morty’s own small fangs appeared to be worrying his bottom lip, making it swell up and appear redder, even in the dim candlelight. His hands were shaking too.

          “It isn’t even necessary,” Morty whined. It was clear he was trying to keep his voice down, though he was on the verge of tears. “We don’t have to _kill_ them.”

          Rick tried to focus his drugged mind on the important things the boy was saying, but it was extremely difficult not to fall back to sleep. Every time he blinked, it was a struggle to raise his lids again. However, he managed. He wanted to ask Morty about the topic, but his tongue rested fat and lead-like at the base of his mouth. Fortunately, Morty continued without prompting.

          “We could just take enough from them for a few days, then let them go. But Mortimer is evil. He’s hateful. He enjoys forcing us into bloodlust, starving us, as though it makes us keener hunters. It doesn’t do— Nothing comes from it! He just wants to keep them—keep the whole thing as mindless and—and savage as possible.”

          Rick found the strength to swallow. That helped work up some saliva that he used to wet his tongue and lips. It made it possible for him to speak in a cracked, gruff voice. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, M-Morty.”

          “What other choice do I have, Rick?” Morty’s voice was harsh, but his eyes met the older man’s and there was a pleading desperation there. It looked authentic, felt real to Rick. If what Morty had said was true, if Morty didn’t have to kill and—most importantly—he didn’t desire it, then Rick felt there was hope for the child demon.

          “I want to help you,” the Gunslinger admitted. “And I could, if it weren’t for all this.” He gestured loosely with his hands and a slight motion like a full-torso shrug. His eyes narrowed, and he turned his vision away from Morty’s pretty but sullen face. “If I just had my guns.”

          “Do you really think that would matter? That a human like you could stand a chance against the Brothers? They are wicked, ancient things, more powerful than you can imagine.” Morty’s tone was so serious that Rick thought he’d glance back at Morty to find a hateful or at least aggressive expression on his features. Much to his surprise, Morty looked eager and curious, like he had hope for a better response.

          Sanchez realized then that Morty had seen Rick’s clothing, his guns. It was possible he knew that Rick was a Gunslinger now, though it was equally possible he was so desperate for a way out that any ballsy guy would have been a beacon of hope. Either way, Rick felt like Morty had come to him tonight not to complain, but with some sort of plan of action. Perhaps the commentary before had been honest but also a kind of test to see if the man would respond favorably.

          “If I were at even half my full strength and had my guns, I wouldn’t still be here.”

          This statement seemed to encourage the small nurse. Rick watched as Morty smiled softly and then looked around. The boy listened carefully; and, once he determined no one was coming, he slipped into his apron pocket and pulled out a small pouch.

          “Take this,” Morty urged, though he was the one who tucked the pouch into the loose neck of Rick’s patient’s gown. He opened it enough so that it would be easier for Rick to get into it and whatever its contents were, but he didn’t pull anything out himself. Instead, he encouraged Rick to do it. “Take one of the leaves out, just one, without exposing the sack.”

          Rick wasn’t sure what the boy was up to, but he carefully removed one arm from its sling and meticulously moved it over towards his collar. The effort it took was ridiculous because of the ashberry root in his system, but he managed. Thankfully, Morty seemed patient and fine with the wait. Rick’s fingers felt fat, numb. He couldn’t feel the tips, he realized. His position and immobility had left him extremely weak and lethargic. However, he managed to slip his forefinger into the small opening in the bag and dragged out a single leaf that made everything make more sense.

          “Good,” Morty chirped. “You know what it is.” Rick figured Morty had read his expression accurately. “Do you know what to do with it?”

          “You can grind this into power to make an antidote to the—“

          “We don’t have that kind of time, and the powder would be too hard for you to take without being noticed. No dust means no evidence.”

          Morty had given Rick a small bundle of tricket leaves. They grew off of thick, reed-like plants that came from the swamplands, but more importantly, the leaves worked as an antidote to many narcotics and paralyzers, including ashberry root!

          Usually, the leaves had to be ground up and mixed in with a bit of water and marrow extract, then boiled down into a paste before it was of any use. It was intended to be mixed in with a glass of warm milk—it had always been goats milk when Birdson made it for the boys—to take a dose. Chewing on raw leaves had the same effect, but eating just one of the leaves would send a person into shock, seizures, cardiac arrest, or all three.

          If the individual didn’t die, they’d likely wish they were dead after they woke from the severe muscle spasms and hallucinations. Rick knew this from personal experience. After all, Birdson had let the boys take nibbles off the ends of a leaf before. In their small bodies, the effects were immediate and overwhelming: cold sweats, terrifying visions, and muscle spasms for Rick; violent convulsions, bursting capillaries, and a three-day coma for Mickey Schuanch.

          “Take it small and slow,” Rick told Morty. “Thanks.”

          The boy beamed at Rick, pleased that the man he was trusting seemed educated. It relieved him a little, Rick could tell, and that earned the lad a grateful smile.

          “They—they’ll keep drugging you,” Morty said. “But if you take a nibble every hour, your body will start to resist the root and you’ll get stronger.”

          Rick was about to ask why Morty was doing this, though he had his suspicions, when Mortimer’s voice rang through the tent. The Gunslinger managed to reposition his arm back into its harness and Morty found the bowl of soup and got the spoon to Rick’s lips, all just before Mortimer entered the medical shelter.

          The leader of the fluid-sucking monsters looked between Rick and Morty a few times, leering in a way that suggested he was paranoid of a conspiracy. Uncomfortable staring turned to action. Mortimer moved over and snatched the bowl of soup from Morty’s hands and gave it a much-too-obvious sniff, his nostrils flaring as he did so.

          “What’s wrong, Big Brother?” Morty asked innocently, his eyes wide with surprise and his brows furrowed.

          Mortimer considered the boy and the soup, but he decided nothing was amiss and relaxed. He kept hold of the chicken and rice supper and nodded Morty towards the door. “Off to the chapel with you, Brother Morty. It’s time for prayer.”

          “But–”

          What calm Mortimer had collected dissipated at the first sign of disobedience. He almost hissed out his next sharp words. “ _Now!_ Brother Morty. _He_ doesn’t wait for his followers.” The insinuation was that their god didn’t wait, but Rick got the distinct impression that Mortimer meant that _he_ didn’t wait.

          “Yes, Big Brother.” With that, Morty stood and slowly left the tent.

          Mortimer and Rick were left alone in the near darkness, though the space between them seemed to glow with the nun’s discontentment. Rick realized then that Mortimer had carried in a lantern. It was lit, and the firelight danced between them in its cage. He had set the thing down before stealing away the bowl of soup.

 _Why hadn’t I noticed that?_ Rick pondered. He realized, to his horror, that the soup had not only kept him constantly weak, but that the long-term use was dulling his mind as well. That was a terribly dangerous and unnerving realization to come to, because a Gunslinger’s strength was his wit and response time.

          “Now you listen here, Mr. _Smithy_ , and you listen good. Morty is a tender soul, a young one, but he is devout. I will not have the likes of you turning his adolescent senses against his purpose.” Mortimer was short-tempered when he was hungry, Rick noted. The human had no way of knowing if the demon actually suspected foul play from any line of reasoning, or if he simply didn’t trust one involver or the other, but he was pissed. “I can tell you’re sweet on the boy, and I’m telling you to get any ideas of him out of your head.”

          Rick witnessed Mortimer’s glamour shivering in and out of place. This time, the shifts were much more apparent. The image changed between an irate and sick-looking young man to something of a demonic husk. His true form was pale and reminded Rick of the edges of burnt wood in the fireplace. The charcoal would turn ashen-gray around the surface of the wood, cracks and grooves along the flaky texture filled with the blackest soot. That was what the Gunslinger saw. A decrepit, old creature with burned-up cinder skin and gums receding over already too-large teeth, making them and their pointed, tiny neighbors look all that much more nightmarish.

          To match his withering appearance, with the glamour removed, Rick could actually smell the decay. Old, moldy, and wet wood rot mixed with the faint stench of decomposing meat. It was nauseating, but Rick held back any visible reaction to the sight or the stink.

          With his dominance established once again, Mortimer seemed to calm. He opted to feed the patient, though it was clear at that point he was only doing so for his own benefit. Every time Rick partially feigned his loss to exhaustion, Mortimer would wake him and force him to down the rest. He continued to say how important a good meal was, and Rick read many innuendos in the statement.

          Finally, the soup was finished. Rick let his head down against his strap, as though he were sound asleep. The gesture worked perfectly and fooled Mortimer, though it was a nearly impossible feat for Rick not to actually drift off to unconsciousness. His willpower alone kept him awake behind his closed eyelids until he heard Mortimer leave the tent, his footsteps disappearing into the world beyond.

          When he was certain he was alone, Rick peeked open his eyes. His tired mind half-expected Mortimer to be standing there, staring at him, far too close to his face for comfort, with a look that said “Aha! I knew you were faking it!” However, Mortimer and his lantern were gone.

          The Gunslinger carefully shifted his body, feeling overwhelmed by the added ashberry root in his system. He somehow managed to pull a single leaf out of the pouch hidden in his top without disrupting the Doctors or pulling too many leaves free and scattering them, a real fear for the man because of how little he could actually feel in his fingertips.

          Rick brought the tip of the pointed leaf to his lips, felt the thin, dry texture scrape the sensitive skin there, and then took a tiny nibble off the top. After a second of not feeling any effect, he began to worry that the leaves were too old or that Morty and his senses had lied to him. Then, figuring that the amount of root in his adult system was just mighty high, he decided to take another, braver bite.

          Half of the small pinkie-length leaf was chewed down into a rough paste by his molars. He chewed the thing slowly, carefully, as to grind all of the effects out of its cells.  

          This time, the impact was present, and it was powerful.

          All at once, Rick’s muscles began to tense and tighten. The sudden force made Rick’s legs stick out locked and straight, his arms curl in towards his chest, and his fingers and toes splay out and flex painfully. Then he could move again, but it was like fighting the pull of a giant rubber band. His heart began pumping adrenaline-rich blood through veins that felt much too tight.

          Sweat started to pour down his face and made his eyes sting terribly. His mouth tasted bitter and coppery, almost like blood but not quite. He could feel his lungs burn with each inhale, and he heard himself making quiet wheezing and grunting sounds, but there was no way to stop the noise from escaping.

          These kinds of results plagued Rick for the next fifteen minutes of his life, though it was difficult for him to imagine that was all the time that had passed. However, when he finally found some metaphorical footing and calmed, his entire body ached even with the returned hissing of the unsettled Doctors. He managed to rest, but he was grateful for the pain because it helped him stay awake for what he thought was another hour. After all, Morty had told him to take a nibble every hour he could, and though that experience had been unpleasant, it meant the tricket was legitimate. He just had to be more sparing with his next dose.

 

          Sanchez managed to take a dose of the leaf an average of every one out of four hours during the next two days. He took a bite after every meal and then tried to stay conscious for at least another hour to take a second bite before he finally let himself sleep. He did this mostly to keep the Brothers from coming in and catching him during one of his spasming fits. After all, they didn’t come in at all anymore unless it was feeding time, and Morty didn’t return at all after his last visit. That made it easier to deal with the repercussions in peace.

          Rick planned to try and get some of the leaves to Summer, but being two cots away from her made it impossible. Throwing such a light-weight object would never work, and neither of them were in any condition to move about. So, instead, Rick used his time to start shifting his limbs and flexing his joints. He kept his motions slow and steady, careful not to disrupt the Doctors or their work and not to pull anything that might make his recovery time even longer.

 _I’ll save her_ , he thought. _Once I’m strong enough, I’ll get myself down and I’ll get Summer and Jerry out of here._ He knew the idea of getting himself out with even one other person was ridiculously optimistic, but if he could just find where they had put his guns, he could kill the lot of evil, little bastards and then it wouldn’t be such a big deal. Of course, there was always the chance that the Brothers didn't actually have Rick’s weapons. It was a possibility he was well aware of but not willing to deal with.

          “What about Morty?” Summer asked him on the third morning.

          “What about him?”

          “Will he be coming with us?”

          “I–” Rick paused and licked his lips as he wondered what the boy’s answer might be to such an offer. “I don’t know.”

          “If he’s helping us, I think he should.” Summer’s reasoning was good, but it didn’t mean that Morty would even want to go _with_ anyway. Sure, he didn’t like being under the Brothers’ control, but it was just as possible that he wanted to be free, to go off on his own. He never said he wanted to _be_ with Rick. Or anyone else. Rick’s inner contemplation must have shown on his face, or perhaps it was just woman's intuition, but Summer seemed to understand Rick’s worry better than he did. “I think it’s pretty clear that he likes you, _Grandpa_. You don’t need to stress about it. He’d go with you in a heartbeat.”

          Summer’s words both eased and frightened Rick in a way he couldn’t properly process, so he mostly just let it go. “Maybe,” he said. “I guess we’ll see.”

 

          Late that same night, Rick had fallen asleep after managing to take three doses of the tricket leaf. It hadn’t been easy to force his eyelids open that entire time, but it had been worth it. Rick was finally starting to feel some semblance of his old self. His attention span had come back, and his attention to detail had improved greatly. He was finally able to move his legs a little. Though the multitude of bindings kept them mostly unusable, he could bend at the knees and do small stomach curls to get his body back into working condition. Still, all of that work was exhausting, so Rick had allowed himself a good night’s rest. At least, that had been the plan.

          Sometime in the very, very early morning, Rick’s heightened senses alerted him to sounds of distress. It took a long moment before he was pulled into consciousness by the noises. At first, the masculine moans came only as background noise in his unfocused dreamscape. Then his eyes opened in the real world, and he was met with cruel reality.

          The pathetic whimpering and almost erotic groaning came from Rick’s left. The tent was lost in complete darkness save for what little of the moon’s light diffused into the fabric of the tent’s front walls. Rick could smell the stink of rotten meat and soggy compost and knew the Brothers were in the tent with him. At least two of them, based on the strength of the scent alone, but there were other clues.

          Sloppy slapping, slurping and sucking, squelching, and panting sounds all filled the room. Rick had all manner of images pop into his mind. He feared that, if he turned his head to the left, he would find the gang of monsters splashing around in a gory puddle of what used to be Jerry, but then the mortal cries wouldn’t make much sense. Jerry, it seemed, was still alive, so he couldn’t possibly be crushed beyond repair. At least, Rick seriously hoped not. Now Rick was picturing them pulling out his entrails and slurping along the blood-soaked organs. It stimulated a happier memory from Rick’s childhood and soiled it. He recalled when and his own brother, Mickey, had once lapped the powdered sugar off the candy-bread ropes Sister Rosemary made for them one year for Holiday. It sickened Rick to visualize such a scene, but it disturbed him more not to know.

          Ever so slowly, careful as could be so as not to get caught, Rick shifted his head and shoulders to the left. His eyes first widened just to make out the scene, and then more so in absolute horror at what he saw.

          Jerry had been lowered down onto the cot. He was free of all of the slings and wraps and belts but far from free to move about. It was hard to see, but Rick thought he must have been still asleep or damn numb from the ashberry root, because the other man didn’t move a muscle as he was–– was––

          Rick wretched in his own mouth and tried to look away, but a sudden jarring pain in his neck made it impossible to turn his head. He was forced to keep watching the scene unfold. His instincts wouldn’t allow him to close his eyes and pretend he wasn’t seeing what was happening.

          There were six figures, possibly the worst part of it all. Jerry was lying out on his back. The monsters had positioned him in a promiscuous way to suit their own nefarious purposes. One of the hideous demons––tonight it seemed they felt no need to waste energy on their glamours––between his parted legs, hips pressed flush with his own. The degenerate monster was holding one of the human’s legs aloft, and was rocking back and forth in rigorous motions. It was fucking him, railing whatever kind of dick it had into Jerry’s limp form.

          Suddenly all the noises Rick had heard were making perfect sense.

          Another of the red-eyed creatures was straddling Jerry’s waist, clearing enjoying itself as it rolled its hips in large circular patterns. Rick could see the silhouette of the beast mixing with Jerry’s as it sat atop him. The demon lifted up and rode Jerry’s slender cock all the way to the top before slamming the entire piece back inside.

          The Gunslinger ached for his guns then, flexed his fingers to feel for them at his sides, though, of course, there was nothing there to grab onto.

          It took a moment to discern a large mass up by Jerry’s head at that angle, but Rick deciphered that one of the monsters had its back towards him, its hands reaching up overhead to grasp one of the slings that had held Jerry aloft. The demon was using the straps to keep its upright pose as it pulsed its hips slowly, bottom resting over the space Jerry’s head should be. It had been a difficult image to get clear in the dark because there was very little distinction between that form and the other Brother that sat directly behind the first. This one was bouncing up and down on Jerry’s chest, a rather rude gesture that suggested there was no consideration for the mortal below at all. This demon had his cock buried deep in the skullfucker and was leaned against his back, lapping and kissing it, while tweaking his nipples with both hands.

          The broken human moans came between sessions of deep throating, it seemed. Quiet noises in comparison to the messy commotion of Jerry’s rapists. The four wretched Brothers were cooing and growling and making vile groans all their own. They were so loud because they were either confident Rick and Summer would stay asleep, or they simply didn’t care if they did or not.

          All of that sickened Rick, rattled him, and made him wish to do anything to help their victim, but there was nothing he could do. His strength was not up to the challenge yet, and any misstep now might cost him his own life, and though it was a Gunslinger’s position to help the needy, it was his position to survive first. 

          All of this would have been endurable––not approved of by any means, but something he could handle hating to witness––except for one detail. There were six silhouettes. Five pairs of glowing red eyes in the darkness. 

          The last form stood out the most, because the boy was still clad in his pure-white attire and his own flesh did not match the other four’s dark complexion. Morty, the boy who Rick hadn’t had the strength to admit that he cared for, was amongst the others. He was seated at the foot of the cot, near the wall of the tent. He appeared to be sitting there and just watching the extreme violation take place, but as Rick’s eyes better adjusted,, he was sure he saw the boy touching himself under his skirt. 

          For reasons Rick didn’t want to face, and even though Morty’s crime was less than the others’’ by comparison, seeing the nurse in such a state was infuriating and made his chest and throat burn. Morty’s glowing, red eyes were larger than the others and half-lidded, but their demonic debauchery was clear to the Gunslinger. Morty was lost to whatever this ritual was, and seeing it made bile rise up in Rick’s mouth.

          “B-Brother Mor-Mortimer,” a quiet voice begged. It was Morty, and so Rick bit his tongue to keep from growling. “P-please, Mortimer. I’m s-so hungry.”

          The one who had his cock buried between Jerry’s asscheeks laughed. “Yes, my dear,” it said. The voice belonged to Mortimer, but there was a grittiness and haunting undertone to it now that made it so much worse to hear. “I think it is time. We’ve played with him enough. Let us feast!”

          The four creatures using Jerry all began to work more feverishly toward climax. Rick heard Jerry scream and choke around the dick in his throat and felt his own esophagus tighten in sympathy. The Brothers all cried out in various notes of satisfaction as they undoubtedly ruined what good nature Jerry had left. The human’s hips moved suddenly, started bucking as his legs flexed in response to his own orgasm.

          Morten, it seemed, had been the one riding Jerry’s dick, because the moment the human started to spasm, it was the flirtatious heathen’s voice that wrang out hot and needy above the others’. His calls matched the silhouette’s writhing, so there was little doubt it was him. That meant it was Mortavier and Morthius playing together at the head.

          When the gang moved off of the man, they circled around him and knelt down. Mortimer gave some sort of a speech in a demonic tongue Rick only new a few choice phrases in. He understood that the leader of the pack was saying something about the meal and performing a kind of spell, but that was it.

          Every part of Rick but one, his need for survival, urged him to act, begged him to force his body into disobedience and push himself into hunter mode. Death was something he could taste, even before it occurred. It wasn’t just an instinct but an actual flavor he caught on the air. It had been his _gift_ —at least, Birdson had spun it that way—but it just made Rick nerve-wracked that he was picking up on some being on _yet another_ plane of reality, only one he couldn’t see or interact with. He feared that concept, because the presence of such a realm or a literal reaper introduced the idea that there was much more to the universe than he could control. Regardless, he tasted the cold, icy bite on his tongue that warned him that someone was about to die, and he would have been a fool to guess it was anyone other than Jerry.

          The demon hunter in Rick, the loyal Gunslinger who took an oath to save every life he could manage, tried to force his muscles to move, but Sanchez’s logic kept him in place. Even as he saw Mortimer raise the knife, even as he watched Mortimer roughly bring it across the other man’s neck and heard Jerry gargle and drown in his own exsanguination, Rick remained perfectly still. He watched the white sheet walls become splattered with sprays of dark fluid as Mortimer laughed and encouraged the others to feed. He saw Mortavier lift his bone saw and bring it down on the man’s torso. Rick didn’t try to shut out the sounds of the group’s frantic guzzling, slurping, and wet lapping. They reminded him of a pack of wild hyenas, each snickering and growling for a spot on the soon-to-be carcass.

          Much to Rick’s dismay, even Morty lifted one of Jerry’s arms and began gorging on the man’s flesh. His white dress and apron was slowly stained black in the night under the dribble of Jerry’s blood. Rick silently prayed that the boy would at least be more delicate than the others, and he thought for a moment that was the case. Then he witnessed Morty pull his head back violently and saw the stringy flesh pull taut between the boy’s mouth and Jerry’s arm. That settled it. For the time being, at least, Morty was as lost to his hunger as his brothers.

          “Here you are, darling,” Mortimer said in a shockingly parental manner. He had dug into Jerry’s chest and ripped out his still-beating heart. Blood sprayed from the torn arteries and veins during its final pumps. Black silhouettes of shooting vital fluid spurted into the air, the full range of which Rick couldn’t be entire certain of in the dark room. However, Rick could imagine a fresh human heart a bit too vividly from years of experience with such mutilation. Mortimer held the organ out to Morty. “You need your strength, child. We want you to grow big and strong, now, don’t we?”

          Suddenly the others slowed in their feasting, and they all turned their attention to Morty. In their demonic tongue, Mortimer told to Morty to take it, and Morty obeyed. The boy thanked him in the same manner and then opened his mouth wide and tore into the meat. Even from where Rick was, he could hear Morty moan and his small bells jingle as he ate. That sent a rush of shivering coos and pleasured purring growls through the others, making Rick’s fingers twitch against imagined triggers.

          They all waited, even Mortimer, for Morty to finish the heart. Then there were quiet cheers before the feasting continued.

          By the time the animals had finished with Jerry, he looked like a blobby mess. They had mangled him far beyond a point that was necessary, even by standards of a predator. Other than Morty, none of them seemed to actually eat much of the body. They slurped and sucked the corpse of its blood, inside and out, but the carnage that was left behind was gratuitous.

          “Ooooh~” Morten moaned. “I feel soooo much better now.”

          “Like a fresh newling,” Mortavier said, humming before and after the words like a pleased school girl who might have gotten her first kiss.

          Mortimer wiped himself off and stretched his stained arms up above his head. Then, he walked over to Morty and offered his hand to the boy. “Easier and easier,” he said. It sounded as though he were reiterating a point he had made in the past.

          “Yes, Big Brother,” Morty said.

          Rick heard a twinge of something unsatisfied in the boy’s compliance, but he was concerned he had only heard it from desire and not because it was actually there. The hunter was well trained to read hidden emotion and meaning, but he knew he was compromised, so he held off any judgement until he could review the situation at a distance.

          “Mmmmm, but I want more.” That had been Morten.

          “You’re such a greedy pig,” Motavier said in his deep voice, but he chuckled immediately after, showing the best humor Rick had ever heard from the usually frighteningly stoic or angry-looking Brother.

          Yes, Rick was certain then that the Brothers were very much like wild dogs. Bloodlust made them savage and pulled them from their senses. When the feeding frenzy ended, it seemed they could behave civilly amongst their pack again. Though Morten’s behavior was crude in both phases, there was a difference between the writhing, groaning beast he was during intercourse; the wild, snarling thing he was during the bloodening; and the provocative creature that enjoyed spewing heavy amounts of flirtatious dialogue.

          “Not for more _bloooooood_ ,” Morten whined. Then he wiggled his hips and put his hand–– Rick couldn’t quite see, but he guessed nowhere decent.

          “I’m thirsty too, actually.” Mortavier’s shyness had returned.

          “Well,” Mortimer said, a thoughtful hum following his words as he teased his kin. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

          Morten, Mortavier, and Morthius all cheered, then Rick saw the five pairs of red eyes suddenly shift to look at him. He had been grateful that he had turned his head to face downward, a reaction towards the end to the grotesque scene. He had no idea what their night vision abilities were like, so he closed his eyes quickly and feigned that he had been sleeping with his head facing downward all along. He hoped none of them had taken note of his position when they had come into the room, or that the change would be deemed excusable.

          Thankfully, it sounded like none of them noticed as they crept over towards him. Soon, he was surrounded by the flock of sinful nurses. The rotten meat smell had been completely replaced by the stench of sex and blood. They were indeed right upon him.

          Suddenly, cold, sticky fingers grabbed ahold of the base of his nightgown, and he felt the fabric be hoisted up and over his hips, pulled in the back and tucked into the waist belt to keep it from falling forward.

 _Oh, god. No!_ Rick thought, but he kept still save for his expertly acted “sleep-breathing.”

          “Ohh my,” one of them said. Rick couldn’t tell for sure which one. It was such a screechy and happily surprised noise that it could have been any of them.

          “It’s not even hard yet,” Morten said. He was standing directly to the left of Rick, so he wasn’t the same as the last speaker.

          “How big do you think he’ll get?” Mortavier asked. He stood to the right of Rick, shoulder to shoulder with Morten, by the sound of it. It wasn’t him either.

          “One way to find out.” Morthius. Not him, though Rick didn’t like how Morthius’s voice came from underneath him.

          Rick felt a cold hand with very long and very boney fingers, also sticky from the dried Jerry on them, grasp his flaccid cock firmly. His stomach did a couple gymnastic flips in his gut, and he worried he wouldn’t be able to control his anger much longer. There were so many things wrong with what was happening!

          “Stop it!”

          That cry made everything stop. The hissing Doctors, the violating hand, and Rick’s heart all stilled at once. It had come from Morty, and that knowledge brought the only bit of relief for Rick.

          “What are you doing?” Mortimer hissed.

          “I––” Rick’s heart sank as he heard Morty’s hesitation.

          “He’s in love with the pretty old man,” Morten teased. “I told you so! Thinks he’s handsome. Wants to fuck him himself. Doesn’t want to share sexy _grandpa_ with the rest of us.”

          Something in hearing the title “grandpa” out of even such a repulsive creature’s lips still made a treacherous knot form in Rick’s belly he didn’t understand but hated all the same.

          “That’s not it, you freak!” Morty yelled. That stung the old man too. “I just––” He paused, regained his confidence and composure, and spoke directly to Mortimer. “He’s still healing. I don’t think we should interrupt the process.” When there wasn’t a quick response, Morty added, “It was your rule, Big Brother, not to disturb the resting before they are ready.”

          Morten and Mortavier both whined in protest, and Morthius growled and gripped Rick’s shaft with nauseating force. For a moment, Rick hoped that Mortimer would be swayed by what was apparently his own rule, but it was not to be. Instead, Mortimer scoffed and said that Jerry was healthy but he didn’t produce much semen––which apparently was important––so they needed to use Rick if they were going to get enough nourishment. Rick couldn’t imagine how his cock juice was particularly nutritious, but he let it go.

          “If you don’t like it, you can leave without feeding. After all, I suppose you don’t really need his sperm, do you, Morty?” There was something bitter in Mortimer’s tone that Rick thought must have been jealousy, but he wasn’t entirely sure what for. Did semen keep their wrinkled, leathery skin looking more _supple_? The Gunslinger couldn’t see it making much of a difference either way.

          “Fine!” Morty practically spat the word. Then Rick heard the boy stomp off.

          The old hunter thought that Morty’s lack of participation was actually rather sweet, though that did nothing to keep what was coming from being any less desired.

          “It’s fine. Let him go,” Mortimer said. “Get on with it. I want to see if this scrawny meatsack is worth anything.”

          Rick had only a second to be offended by Mortimer’s sudden drop in manners before he felt Morthius’s powerful grip start to yank on his member.

          At first, Rick was determined to remain flaccid, not wanting to give the beasts the satisfaction of his erection, which wasn’t all that difficult since it was a cold, witchy hand that was covered in human blood that was trying to stimulate him. However, the disgruntled noises of the others and the memory of Morten being able to stimulate him with seeming ease before made Rick reconsider his resolve.

_All right, Rick. You can do this. Just do this and they’ll leave and you’ll be one step closer to getting the hell out of here. Just––_

          If he wanted to live, it seemed that he’d have to participate in the Brothers’ disgusting game.


	5. Feeding time. The glutton. Morty’s punishment.

Slimy and unusually long, Morthius’s tongue circled Rick’s cock like a playful serpent. It could wrap around his flaccid cock multiple times and did so repeatedly, drawing it ever deeper into the aggressive Brother’s gullet. Rick worked effortlessly to pretend that wasn’t what was happening, that he was anywhere else and with anyone else, but it was harder to pretend he was happy about getting sucked on by the fiendish little creep than to pretend he was still sound asleep. 

          “You’re doing it wrong,” Morten groaned. “Let me. Let me!”

          “You know his magic isn’t as strong,” Mortavier said quietly. That earned a growl from Morthius. The sound vibrated around Rick’s cock, which almost stimulated a tiny flinch from the man and made the other demon wince and squeak apologetically. 

          “Ugh! Fine.” Morten seemed to want to move things along. He grabbed Rick’s head, lifted it from the sling, and then pressed his thin, cracking lips to the human’s plusher ones. 

          Rick held fast and tried to be as limp and physically unresponsive as possible, but––much to his surprise––his dick started to stiffen as the taste of bloody-moss soiled his tongue. 

          Morthius moaned in delight as the sleeping length began to rapidly grow inside his mouth. He slurped the dick effortlessly as it grew, able to spread his jaw wider to accommodate the swelling mass. He let it run down his throat and bloat out against his esophagus walls. It choked off what little air was getting through, but the lack of oxygen didn’t seem to bother the demon. Instead of pulling off out of discomfort, the way a human might have, Morthius began bobbing his head up and down, continuously rolling his tongue around the cock now fully erect. 

          Rick’s eyes peeked open, more out of a sense of sudden overwhelming pleasure than on purpose. He caught sight of Morten’s alarming red eyes, sitting in deep black pits, looking right back at him. He felt Morten smile against his lips, felt the other’s tongue lash out and probe his slack-jawed mouth. Something in the monster’s saliva made Rick’s mind thrum with endorphins, confusing him into thinking this was all actually incredibly arousing. 

          He feared Morten would realize that he was awake, that he had been taking the tricket leaves to fight their poison, but he played it cool and blinked several times as though he were just jostled from his rest. Then, he hummed methodically and closed his eyes once more. Morten seemed to accept this right away and continued to kiss him in his own bizarre manner. 

          “Ngh!” Rick hadn’t meant to make a sound, but the sudden loss of a powerful shot of spunk left him with little choice in the matter. He even bit down on Morten’s tongue as his own teeth pressed together and his jaws clenched, which the perverted creature didn’t seem to mind in the least. 

_           Fuck! _ Rick cursed loudly in his own mind.  _ Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! _

          Morthius drank the shot down like an alcoholic downs that first beer. His throat ruthlessly tugged on Rick’s cock as he swallowed everything the man would give him. His tongue had talent, Rick had to admit, as it pumped the fluid out by wrapping around tightly and rolling from the base down to the flared crown. 

          By the time Rick’s member was set free, it was well past deflated and tired. It hung down heavy and satisfied, and its owner reveled in a disturbing sense of satisfaction.  

          “My turn!” Morten cheered. “Did you like that, Little Brother?” he asked Morthius slyly. 

          “Fuck off me,” Morthius growled back. However, it sounded like his protest went on deaf ears and that Morten had grabbed the gruffer demonic nurse and started kissing him. Mortavier whined a little, making Rick question if he and Morthius were a pair of some sort, but no sound came from Mortimer. The two kissing boys went at it for several seconds before there was the sound of shoving. Morthius growled. “You really are a wretch.”

          “Thank you,” Morten purred. 

          Then Morten was at Rick’s length and teasing the tender flesh with his face. It might have been a cute nose nuzzle if the beast had any such charming features. Then Morten parted his lips and surprised Rick by seducing his body into arousal once again, despite the man’s mental defiance. 

          Rick felt his stiffening cock growing between the horny monster’s viper fangs. His tongue teased Rick’s slit, the way it had the last time the hunter caught the demon violating him. The human was powerless to his intense pheromones––or spell, or whatever made such a feat possible. He decided to try and actually fall sleep, to escape into an only semi-conscious state so that his body could ride out whatever they’d do to him and he could stay as absent to the goings-on as possible. 

          That, it seemed, had been a poor choice. The result of dimming his conscious mind was minutes turning into hours and pleasurable sensations and dark thoughts colliding into a drug-induced waking nightmare of pleasures.  

          Morten guzzled him down like the greedy little slut he was, only pulling off to share because he was made to do so. 

          Mortavier came to his knees before Rick next and, to some aid, hummed a vibrating tune the entire time he lapped gently at the hyper-sensitive organ. His tongue was thicker than the other two’s had been, but almost as long, and having it hug Rick’s cock while it ran up and around the rod made Rick whimper in his half-asleep state. When Mortavier finally came to ingest Rick’s cock, he did so thoroughly. His tongue must have been hanging out of his mouth because Rick could feel the rear curves of the muscle as the quiet Brother took him all the way back. He felt the demon’s face press to his lower abdomen, and then felt the boy’s clawed hands press to Rick’s overheated skin. One of the demon’s hands dug into the meat of the hunter’s ass, while the other held onto one the bony protrusion of one of Rick’s hips. 

          When Rick came that time, he did so being forced to slam his cock in and out of a suffocating windpipe. Mortavier was pulling Rick’s hips back and then slamming them forward against his face, still managing to hum around the intruder and not stopping until Rick’s member shrank away from the cruel but unusually pleasurable violation. 

_           I can’t… _ Rick thought.  _ I can’t––anymore. It’s too…too much. Fuck. I’ve lost so much fluid. I’m gonna black out.  _

          In fact, these vampire-succubi seemed to have a way with pulling out what they wanted from Rick, no matter how little he thought he could take. He knew if they wanted more out of him, however, they would have it.

          “That’s enough.” Mortimer said. “You have all had your fill, yes?” The others all admitted they had, in voices of pleased spoiled brats who had just finished a holiday feast. “Good. Then off with us. Rick has donated plenty to us tonight, but we must remember that he is still healing.”

          “What about you?” Morten asked, honest concern in his voice. 

          “Do not worry about me, Morten. I shall be just fine.”

          Rick was extremely relieved to hear that Mortimer seemed uninterested in taking his own milky dose, at least for tonight. He heard the head whore gather up the other three and convince them to leave well enough alone for the night. It was almost frightening how rapidly the room quieted.

          It was that still, deathly quiet.  Rick realized that the Doctors weren’t hissing. However, to his left and far towards the back of the tent, he could hear the grotesque sound of thousands of tiny mouths gnawing away on a much deserved meal. 

          The last thing he thought before he finally blacked out was an old adage that had served him well over the decades: 

_           Don’t think about it. _

 

          It turned out that it was extremely difficult not to think about the events of that night. It was hard for Rick to push the image of Morty’s bloodied acts, to forget the sensation of the lustful atrocities the others had forced on him. Even more frustrating was the fact that Rick knew that the worst was yet to come. 

          Between his mealtime doses of ashberry root and his sleep, Rick continued to chew on the trinket leaves and feel the flood of adrenalin course through his system. The effects became easier to bear. The most trying symptoms eventually began to ease off, and Rick found that his strength was returning little by little every day. However, Jerry was gone, and, though the monsters had just fed plenty, Rick could sense the impatience amongst the demonic ranks. 

          At night, he heard them whisper, heard them discuss separating Summer from her grandfather to make things easier. He heard Morten and Mortavier discuss how badly they wanted to taste Rick again, and learned that some of them had stronger preferences for their dinner. Morten was fine with the idea that Summer, being related to Rick, would taste pleasantly sweet for a woman. However, it seemed Mortavier wanted no part of any woman’s sex, only their blood. Either way, they were thirsty beyond their means, and Rick feared for the girl’s life. 

          Fortunately, what Morty had told Rick about Mortimer’s penchant for starving out his clan before they were permitted to feed again seemed to hold true. Nearly two weeks passed without major incident or harm befalling the redheaded woman. Unfortunately for Rick, his flavor was too good for the Brothers to resist. 

          Morten visited Rick the most often. In the night, in the dark, and without permission, Morten would sneak into the tent and drink his fill of Rick’s semen while Summer snored calmly nearby. Rick always feared she’d wake and see what the beast was up to, but the root kept her well beyond her wits most of the time and, at night especially, deep in the valley of slumber. She never heard or saw any of the sin being forced upon Rick, or at the very least she never said anything about it. 

          If that little monster had been the only midnight visitor, Rick might have become used to the process, but that wasn’t the case. It seemed he was something that each of the Little Brothers of Aluria needed another taste of. Morten came in every other night or three, but the others did pop in for visits of their own. 

          Mortavier only came to Rick twice. The most reserved of the dark lot snuck in one night and kissed Rick’s mock-sleeping lips for nearly an hour as he pumped the man’s thick cock. He collected syringes of blood by way of his needles and vials and small jars of spunk for private consumption later. He seemed almost nervous about drinking straight from the tap, as though he thought Mortimer would smell his wrong deeds and punish him. 

_           Or maybe he’s just a freak. He could prefer it this way. What does it matter? _

          Rick honestly preferred Mortavier to Morten’s visits, not just because they were much more seldom, but also because the bashful creature chose to wear his glamour while he worked. 

          Morthius came in the second night that Mortavier had been stealing a bite from Rick. It had been the only time Morthius had broken his vow of obedience to Mortimer that Rick had seen, and the Gunslinger thought that it had little to do with him. The scary-eyed Brother came into the tent in a tizzy. He called to Mortavier and then rushed over to pull him away from Rick by his hair. Arguing ensued, and, for a moment, Rick thought that he’d see a brawl break out between the two demons. However, he witnessed something like a lovers’ quarrel turn into a strange and violent display of sexual passion. 

          Rick could say and do nothing as Morthius fucked his “little brother” roughly on the cot below, or when Mortavier was forced to grab onto Rick’s strapped body to keep upright while Morthius took him from behind. They actually involved very little with Rick, only using his cock like a glass of refreshing water once their deeds were done. He was fine with that. That encounter had been his last violation from either of the two. 

          Morty, unlike the other four, never came around. Not to feed him or to bathe him. Not to scold him or to take pleasure from him. He simply never came back in to the tent after that night with Jerry. Rick asked about him, of course, feigning ignorance about the boy’s deeds, but Mortimer and the others never said more than that he was in the chapel praying every day. 

          The Gunslinger doubted there even was a chapel, but he was more concerned with  _ why _ Morty hadn’t returned. Was it humiliation? Was it punishment from Mortimer for not joining in on the feeding? Was it that he simply didn’t want to be near Rick anymore? Had he given up? Or had not feeding on Rick left him weak and still needing more? The hunter had no way of knowing.

          And that was what Rick’s days consisted of: uncertainty, thoughts about Morty, drugged and nauseating soup, sleeping, fighting the sleep, chewing on leaf bits, and getting molested by Morten. 

 

          By the end of the month, the Doctors had kept Rick’s muscles in surprisingly peak condition, so moving them about was never harder than it would have been if he hadn’t been basically immobile for weeks. He knew his wounds were all but healed, but the Doctors kept on working. He adjusted his arms and legs and made sure that he kept getting stronger and not weaker. Staying up an hour or two after the ashberry root had become easier as well, and he could feel his chance for escape coming. He knew the window of opportunity to get Summer out with him was shortening as well, because he could see that his semen wasn’t enough to keep the color from draining from the Brothers’ glamoured faces. 

 

          “Summer,” Rick called to the girl a short time before sunset one evening.  

          The setting sun lit up the tent walls with soft oranges along one side, casting deep blue-violet shadows on the opposite. From over the hissing of the Doctors, Rick could hear a band of crickets beginning to play their night sonnet. That was a sure sign that the Brothers were not nearby, because no wild animal dared make a peep in the presence of the demonic nurses.

          “Summer!”

          The girl moaned and shifted in her cot. She glanced over towards Rick after a few more attempts on his part to summon her. Her eyes had dark rings around them, though she seemed otherwise quite healthy.  _ Too much sleep _ , Rick thought. 

          “Rick?”

          “Yeah. Listen. I’m going to get you out of here, sweety.”

          “What?” Summer struggled to sit up on her elbows, but her head was clearly still swimming from the root, and she fell back to her pillow at once. She opted to turn her head towards the man instead and made an effort to keep her eyes open and to listen more attentively. “What are you talking about?”

          Rick made sure they were alone and pulled his left arm free from the sling it was held in. He flexed his fingers and stretched the arm out and pulled it back in tight to his chest. He did this a few times to show the ease of the motion. Summer suddenly appeared more awake. 

          “H-how?” she asked, eyes wide and lips curled upward into a hopeful smile. “That’s incredible!”

          “Shhhhh,” he hushed her. 

          She obeyed and whispered to him. “How can you do that? Is your body getting used to the poison?”

          Rick thought it was best to avoid the entire truth for now, especially since he had no idea what Morty’s current status was. He shook his head. “I have something to help counterbalance the effects of the ashberry root.” His hand slipped into his top and he pulled out his last whole leaf. 

          “What is it?” Her eyes strained to see.

          “A tricket leaf. And if I can get it to you somehow, you can start chewing on it and you might be strong enough in a couple nights that you can help me get you out of here.”

          Even from where he was, Rick could see the tears welling up in the young woman’s eyes. It made his heart ache, but it a good way, a familial kind of way. 

          “The only problem is,” he said carefully, “I don’t know how to get it to you.”

          The two bounced ideas back and forth about how Rick might be able to get the leaf to Summer. Walking it over was still out of the question. Even if Rick’s legs would carry him, he had no way of getting back in the sling once he got down. Managing to grab the pillow from off the cot below and putting the leaf inside the pillow case and then throwing the pillow to Summer seemed like an interesting idea, except there was no way she’d be able to throw it back so that it wouldn’t be noticed out of place by the nurses. That could ruin everything. Each time they came up with an idea, there seemed to be an equally threatening consequence that ruined the mission. 

          “Maybe, if I just started throwing up the soup?” Summer was out of suggestions and had already accidently passed out on Rick three separate times. She had just startled herself awake with her latest idea and blurted it out, a sound which was so sudden that it made Rick jump a bit.

          “They’d find it,” he said.

          “I could just pretend that the soup is making me sick. It’s not that unreasonable. I’ve been eating the same damn meal for weeks on end, and the ashberry root really is making me sick feeling.”

          Rick wanted to protest, but there wasn’t a whole lot of other options. In the end, he told her that it was the best plan they had, but that she should be ready for what might happen. “They could force you to eat it, just make something else and drug that, or they might even get angry.”

          “It’s worth trying,” she said, with so much conviction that Rick couldn’t help but want to believe it might work. He understood her desperation for hope. Rick’s strength was a silver lining she hadn’t expected, and now she was enthusiastic about the idea of escaping this hellish hospice. 

          “All right, Summer. We’ll try it your way.”

 

          The next time a nurse came in––it was Mortavier––Summer kept to her plan. She swallowed several bites compliantly, the same way she always did, but then she started to groan and clench her stomach. She asked for a towel, something that apparently baffled the caretaker and sent him into a dizzying circle. While he wasn’t looking, Summer gagged herself and promptly spewed the soup back up. 

          Rick almost laughed at how the redhead managed to splatter it all over Mortavier’s apron. He failed to repress a smirk, though, because of the hilarious look of disgust and shock on the nurse’s face. 

          “S-sorry,” Summer said weakly. “I’m so sorry, Brother. I-I just feel so––”

          Summer started to fill her cheeks with air, pushing them out and looking like she might heave again. Mortavier practically lept backwards, towards the tent door. He threw up his hands defensively and shouted, “No! No more of that! I-I’ll…” She lurched forward and the demon fled out the tent flaps yelling, “I’ll find you a towel!”

          “Good work,” Rick said with a chuckle. “You nailed him!”

          Summer wiped her mouth clean and grinned at Rick. “You should see me with a pistol.”

          That excited Rick a great deal. He felt his hands flinch, eager to feel the grips of his own guns. He fancied a scene where he and Summer were out of this place and she was showing him what a great shot she was before he inevitably left to continue his journey for the Ivory Tower. It was a peaceful and heartwarming image, and the idea that he could save this girl became clearer in his mind. 

          “I’d like to someday,” Rick said. That earned him a softer, embarrassed smile. 

          Rick knew that what Summer had done would leave her stomach empty and her insides sore. She wouldn’t have to fight the full effects of her dinner, but she wouldn’t be able to rely on the nourishment it provided either. Going hungry was no easy or fun task, especially when one’s blood was still thick with root, but she held herself together like a junior demon hunter. It made Rick proud to witness. 

          When Morten came in to see what all the fuss was about, he brought with him an extra bowl of soup. He helped clean Summer up and then tried to feed her. This time, she managed to store a bunch of the soup in her mouth and spat it all up on the nurse’s face and habit. Rick thought it was a very convincing performance, and apparently so did Morten. He ran out almost as quickly as Mortavier had, and Summer and Rick shared quiet laughter. 

          “Miss Smithy!” Mortimer called to the girl as he entered the tent. He looked a bit alarmed, and Rick realized that the demon had never had anyone pull a stunt like this on them before. That fact amused the Gunslinger greatly. He kept a solemn expression on his features.

          “What’s wrong with her?” Rick demanded. “I thought you said she was doing better!”

          For the first time since his arrival, Rick thought Mortimer believed the lie about their familiarity. The leader of the lusty pires looked alarmed and a bit shaken up. It was hard to believe no one had ever been overdosed on the ashberry root before. It wasn’t all that uncommon for the body to reject heavy doses of the stuff. 

          “Dear child, why are you suddenly not keeping your dinner down?”

          “I don’t know,” Summer moaned. She was the best actress Rick had ever seen. She looked as though she were actually turning green, though that made him worry that she really was feeling the effects of the act. “I’m sorry. I just can’t eat any more of the soup. I can’t.” The redhead made a bloated and sick sound, as if it was all bubbling up again. She swallowed it down and panted gently. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. Tears fell from her eyes. “I just can’t. Please don’t make me eat any more.”

          Mortimer checked her over, wiped the sweat from her brow, and gave her some water to wash her mouth out with. He allowed her to rest for some time then tried to bring soup to her lips once more. Now Summer feigned sickness at the mere smell and sight of the soup. 

          Rick backed her story up by running off a tale about how a friend of his had been starving in winter, but all he had to eat was potatoes for those three long months. He had died two months in because his stomach just couldn’t take eating the same thing over and over anymore. The story did wonders at weakening Mortimer’s suspicion. He stopped trying to feed her right away and said that he would have the cook work up something else for her to try when her stomach had settled. 

          Rick found this beneficial as well as amusing because the story had been, more or less, fabricated. It only proved that the demons knew very little about humans. Though, to Mortimer’s credit, Rick thought that one  _ might  _ die if they had nothing but old potatoes to eat for months on end. He was a good trapper, so even in the harshness of mid-winter he could usually find some animal or another to feed on.

          It was clear to Rick that Mortimer was only worried because she was like cattle to him, but the lies worked perfectly, all the same. That told Rick that Mortimer and his crew were not all-knowing ancients after all. Old, perhaps, but not so educated on human biology or behavior to call out their little charade. 

          “Good job, Summer.” Rick offered the girl his genuine praise, not something he so easily handed ou. “How are you doing?”

          Summer smiled at Rick and gave him a nod. She lifted her left hand, and gave a thumbs up. The gesture meant “I am well” or “everything is fine,” and Rick knew at once she was hurting, but that she was also a strong woman. Stronger than most, he imagined. 

          “I need a nap, though,” she admitted. “Wake me when this is over, okay?”

          Rick laughed briefly. “Sure, sweety. I’ll just do that.”

          “Thanks, old man. Appreciate it.” Just like that, the little heroine was out cold again.

 

          Rick had thought it was weird when Morten came in the night with dinner for Rick but with nothing new for Summer. When he asked the nurse about it, Morten explained that chicken and rice soup was the only thing any of them knew how to make, so they were just going to wait to feed her again until tomorrow morning. Rick scolded Morten, saying that his granddaughter needed nourishment to heal. Morten just shrugged and said it wasn’t going to be a big deal and then made sure Rick ate his entire bowl before leaving the tent again. 

 

          That night, Rick managed to chew on his leaf only once after the meal, before passing out. The soup he’d been given had been dosed higher than usual it seemed, so there was nothing Rick could do to fight the effects. He slept hard for hours, dreaming about Aluria and the chime of Morty’s white bells. He saw the town as he imagined it might have been a few weeks before he had found it. 

          Men, women, and children filled the small town. Horses carried their riders down the main street, and there was a farmer leading one of his old milking cows to the butcher. There were white bells attached to the ends of strings, making windchimes that decorated nearly every porch. A ball that a group of children passed between their feet rattled with the telltale chiming of small bells filling its rubber and hide insides. People seemed merry and fine. 

          Then a horrible shriek echoed out from the town’s tavern, and Rick went running into the blood-stained swinging doors. The scream tore through the place so loudly that it made Rick’s teeth hurt. He looked around and only saw the lac-luster expressions of casual patreons, all of whom were unmoved by the blood-curdling, effeminate screaming. 

          “Rick!” the shrill voice cried, and Rick recognized it. 

          “Summer?” Rick scanned the tavern for any sign of the young woman, but even as he darted between tables and began throwing open doors around the saloon, he could not find her. “Summer!” 

          He called to her over and over, hearing her as though she were simultaneously right next to him and yet hidden within the depths of the growing maze. 

          “Rick! Rick!”

          Finally, he tossed open the door to the backway behind the establishment and found her. A deep, violent range filled him as he saw that a gang of mutants had surrounded her and pulled her down. They were ripping and tearing at her clothes and flesh. There was blood coating her pale hand that reached out to him from within the horde. 

          “You bastards!” Rick pulled out his guns and began firing at the mass of rotten flesh, but his gunshots had no effect whatsoever. “What’s going on?” He looked at his hands, to where he was sure his weapons were, only to find his grips empty. 

          The nightmare world started to crack and break in the pattern of a spiderweb. He felt himself swallow bile that burned the back of his throat, but the swallow felt different than the dream, more real. All at once the distance between the two realities became great, and Rick found himself blinking against a terrible blurry darkness. It took him too long to remember the tent and the bindings and the Doctors. He started to thrash as he heard some disgusting voice growl out the words: “Keep quiet, you little bitch!”

          Rick realized where he was first, and that the voice had belonged to Morthius next. Then it all came into place, one thing right after another, and a picture painted itself in the dark. There was nothing over his eyes, so the extreme darkness was real. He could hear the faint cry of thunder and knew the moon and stars were hidden behind thick clouds. Without their light or a candle to go by, he could hardly see anything inside the tent. 

          What he couldn’t see, however, he could hear. Panting, snarling, and gut-wrenching moist sounds came from a feeding frenzy off to his right. The noises made Rick’s chest burn and his guts knot up. He had to grind his teeth to keep from shouting, clench his fists to keep his body steady. His mind had already worked out that there was no point in blowing his own cover. Summer would soon be dead.

          What had been a lovely voice was now hoarse from screaming, weakened and broken into tiny gasps and quivering whines. It was clear by the echoing horror what state she was in, one that the Gunslinger couldn’t pull her back from. Not even with his guns. 

_           Don’t think about it, _ he ordered himself.

_           She was screaming! That was real! _

_           Don’t think about it. _

_           She was calling for you! She was begging you to help her. _

_           Don’t think about it. _

_           You said you’d protect her! You said you’d _ **_save her!_ **

_           There’s nothing I can do for her now. It’s too late. _

_           This is  _ **_your_ ** _ fault! You did this! You told her to stop eating! You told her it was a good idea! They knew they couldn’t keep her docile without it, so they decided to just devour her! _

_           Don’t think about it. You couldn’t have known what would happen. It’s too late anyway.  _

_           You bastard! She could still be alive!  _ **_Do something!!!_ **

          But Rick’s self-preservation and training as a Gunslinger kept him still. There was nothing he could do, no way he could fight those monsters off with any chance of victory. He had to stay still, had to stay quiet. Had to let them believe their drugs were still working and that he was weak. His only chance was how they would underestimate him. The girl was gone. She was just another on a long list of failed attempts. He couldn’t allow her to be anything more.

          Rick waited impatiently for Summer’s tattered whimpering to finally fall to silence. He hadn’t been able to keep himself from taking note of the duration of her suffering. It did him no good, but he had done it anyway. Since there was no other use than self-torture for the guilt, he chose to add it to the ever-raging fire in the pit of his soul. He would use it as fuel for his vengeance, use it as more motive to not only get free but to kill those vile monstrosities.

          He had to listen, unable to get back to sleep, for what felt like hours of grueling torture. Thankfully—and there was so very little to be thankful for these days—Rick was there when all the gnashing and grunting came to an end. He heard the fiends praise one another and then listened to them leave the tent, only seeing the red of their eyes and their blotched silhouettes against the shades of darkness outside the tent. 

          At the very least, he thought, they would not come to him tonight. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to handle it if they had, and he thanked the spirit of his mentor that he did not have to bare that pain as well. 

          When he knew he was alone, he wept quietly. Rick wasn’t the sort of man that crying suited very often, but his heart was too heavy with the guilt of doing nothing and his body was too trapped to exert the energy elsewhere, so he let the tears fall and his chest heave with burning air as he apologized over and over in the dark. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”   



	6. Morty. Tricket. The Twins.

__

_Artwork by the incredible[Mrs Sundae](https://twitter.com/SundaeMrs)!_

 

The next morning, it was like nothing had happened. The bed that had been Summer Smithy’s just the day before was now barren and clean. It matched the other methodically made cots. The sheets were washed and pressed. A fresh pillow sat at the head of the small, flat bed, tucked into a pristine pillowcase. There were no signs of a struggle, no bloodstains tainting the milky hue of the material. There was nothing to suggest a young woman had ever lived or perished in that place at all. 

          That was, of course, to be expected, but the sight still chilled Rick inside and out. His heart ached in a way that he had thought he had hardened past, but he figured the girl must have torn open a scar on the dusty organ. She had made a nest inside his emotional state, a fact that he hadn’t even noticed until the pain and guilt wouldn’t go quietly.

          Breakfast came by way of Morten, possibly the last person Rick wanted to see. The nurse was rejuvenated, practically prancing as he entered the room now only housing one occupant. The boy wore an exceptionally pleased look on his face, and his brown eyes locked on Rick’s pale blue ones. 

          “Good morning,” the demon cooed. He sported his arrogance like a badge. “And how are we this morning, old man?”

          Rick grit his teeth. He knew his jaw flexed visibly under the pressure, but he had to do something from leaping out of his bindings and strangling the taunting little shit then and there. Birdson’s voice reminded Rick that he was supposed to have been asleep last night, that he was meant to be a grandfather wracked with confusion and concern. 

_           If you want to live longer _ , the fatherly voice said.  _ Then you must sometimes play along with unfavorable scenes. _

          Rick swallowed and blinked slowly, feigning that his head was still much groggier than it felt. Thanks to the tricket leaves, he was almost completely coherent now. Only the stress made the act of keeping his mind focused a challenge.

          “Where—“ Rick started in a grizzly voice, caught in his dry throat and drier mouth. He licked his lips, growled harshly to clear his windpipe, and began again. “Where’s my granddaughter?”

          Morten snortled––a sound between a laugh and a snort––and raised an eyebrow at Rick. “You’re still going on about that?” 

          Rick’s eyes narrowed. His dangerous leer was legitimate. “Where is my granddaughter?” he asked again, this time with more threat behind his words. He hadn’t meant to sound so awake, but the results were somewhat pleasant. 

          Morten took a step back. For an instant, he wore the innocent fear of a very young man being loomed over by an impressive and intimidating figure. Rick revelled in the presence of such an expression, because it was the first time he had felt  _ any  _ kind of power since waking up in the demon-run hospice. However, the look quickly changed to one of compensating amusement, and Morten laughed darkly. 

          “You don’t fool me, old man. I know the little tramp wasn’t your blood.” Morten grinned confidently and Rick didn't have to think hard on how the nurse could have known. “You really shouldn’t worry about  _ her  _ anyway.” 

          Morten moved forward and pressed his hand against Rick’s face, cradling his cheek in a manner that was usually meant to be soothing. The flirtatious Brother used it as a way to force contact and to add to his condescension. He even ran his thumb over Rick’s lip. 

          “The little cunt is gone.” Morten’s words were venomous and daring. The name-calling, Rick knew, was just an effort to try and rile him further. It  _ did  _ infuriate the Gunslinger, but then and there was not the time to strike. “And you know what? You have  _ noooo  _ reason to be jealous.” The boy-harlot pushed himself forward, standing on his knees on the cot below Rick. “You’re still my favorite,  _ Grandpa. _ ” 

          The Gunslinger had met demons with a fondness for emotional cruelty, and ones who liked to play with their victim’s mental well-being, so Morten’s nasty little games shouldn’t have been too much to simply ignore and push past. But Summer was gone and the hole that left in Rick made him want to break apart the demons who had broken her. Faced with the predator that had robbed him of his motivation, Rick had very little patience. 

          “Where’s Mortimer? I demand to speak with him about my granddaughter's whereabouts, immediately!”

          Apparently that had not been the reaction Morten had expected nor wanted. The nurse, who Rick was certain planned to take some breakfast for himself that morning, scoffed and backed right off the bed and onto the center isle. There must have been a rule about getting Mortimer if he was summoned, because Morten seemed quite irritated even as he complained. 

          “What do you need to see Big Brother for? He’ll have the same message for you.  _ The girl is gone _ .” 

          “Get him!” Rick managed to make his voice convincingly urgent and exhausted-sounding. 

          Morten left in a huff, and Rick listened for his footsteps to fade from earshot. When he was certain he was alone, he contemplated his next move. 

_           I could free myself _ , he thought.  _ My window of opportunity is growing smaller, and getting the jump on Mortimer might be my only chance.  _

          The scholarly slayer tried to estimate his own strength, the items and materials he had around him and what he could use as a means to escape, and the possibilities surrounding Mortimer, the Doctors, and the other brothers. Every option seemed too risky in his current state, but he continued to ask himself if he really thought things would get any better in the next few days.

_           If I try to run, I won’t make it far in the desert wearing this. They won't even have to wrestle with me. They’d just find me blacked out and half baked in the sands.  _

          Rick licked his lips and looked to the cot that had been Summer’s. 

_           If I stay and fight, I have to hope Mortimer is alone. Those bells are a real problem though. If he controls the Doctors too, he might be able to sic them on me. Plus, he’s probably extremely strong and durable.  _

          Most demons were more physically dense than humans, and they often came equipped with exceptional strength that made even the lesser monsters formidable opponents.

          Rick glanced over to where Jerry had been hanging during Rick’s first days. It seemed so long ago.

_           They might not mind breaking me down so that I can’t leave, then just have the Doctors fix me up again. _

          Rick’s gaze then moved towards the entrance to the medical tent. It had been less than a minute since Morten had left. He still had time to decide what he was going to do, but not much.

_           My best bet would be to get behind the tent wall and wait. When he comes in, I can grab him by the ears and rip this bells right off his head.  _

          Rick realized that his makeshift plan could potentially fail for a myriad of reasons, and his mind started to spew warnings at him from all angles. He worked out the best scenario and knew that it would have to be a play-by-ear sort of game regardless. He just needed a place to start. 

          “All right,” he murmured under his breath. “Let’s do this.”

          Just before Rick started to finagle his way out of his bindings, an unexpected sound came from the outside world. Footsteps on the dirt-packed ground. Someone was on their way inside. 

          Rick inwardly cursed and feigned a sleeping pose rather than the one of action he had hoped to take. His eyes were closed, so he wasn’t entirely certain which of the hedonistic set had entered the room, but he took note of the relative silence as they came towards him. He couldn't hear the wooden clacking of their bells, whoever they were.Then he felt their presence directly in front of him. His instincts urged him to peel his eyes open and see who was there and what they were preparing to do. He might be in serious danger.

          “Morty?” Rick’s eyes shot open wide at once. Instead of a red-dressed Brother, it was the purely white-clad child that knelt before him. 

          Morty looked up with an alarmed expression on his face. He had thought Rick was asleep, it seemed, and he was on edge. 

          “Shhhhhh!” Morty quickly hushed Rick. He glanced around cautiously. No one was coming. Not yet, at least.

          Speaking now just above a whisper, Rick ask Morty what he was doing there. “I just sent Morten off to get Mortimer. He’ll be back soon.”

          “Then shut up,” Morty ordered. “Listen.”

          Rick realized then why he hadn’t heard Morty’s white bells chiming. He had pulled his habit down over his ears. He had purposefully muffled them so that he could move around undetected. He appeared very focused, and there was something in his aura that rose Rick’s hopes for a better plan. 

          “I know you saw us. Saw me,” he corrected himself. “With the man. Jerry.” There was shame in his voice, but he managed to keep from stuttering the way he usually did when he was flustered. “I don’t expect you to forgive me o-or even really like me after that.” The tinge of pain that admission brought the boy was clear, but he kept on. “But we don’t have to like each other to  _ help _ each other.”

          “You seem pretty motivated. You got a plan, lad? ‘Cuz unless you have a miracle under that skirt of yours, I doubt I’m gonna be much use to you.” Rick felt more relief than he had expected. He understood the boy was a demon, and that all creatures had to feed. He had thought he had grown to hate Morty a little, after watching him tear into the flesh of Jerry’s arm with such reverence, but it seemed he harbored nothing but longing for the young one. Still, there was that voice in the back of his head telling him he should care, and that caused him to be a bit snippy. Plus, it was just in Rick’s nature to be a sardonic jerk. 

          “As a matter of fact…” Morty's brow twisted in haughty confidence. His hands fumbled under the mattress of the cot, where—Rick now understood—he had been stashing something before the old man had disrupted him. “I might have something you’ll like.”

          Rick didn’t dare get his hopes too high. He expected, perhaps, a kitchen knife or some other utensil to emerge. Instead, what Morty dragged into view sent a shockwave of life into the Gunslinger. His lips parted in an awed gasp, and his eyes dilated. 

          “How did you—?” Rick’s heart raced as he took in the image of one of his duel-system handguns. 

          Designed for the explicit purpose of killing monsters and putting down sinners, the weapon had two unique qualities. First, the gun was simultaneously a pistol and a revolver. There was a revolving chamber in the body of the gun, capable of cradling up to eight blessed rounds that could waste any lesser being, human or otherwise, with a single bullet. These were used in moderation, as they were the most powerful rounds the Gunslinger possessed. 

_           Plant one of those between Mortimer’s eyes and the bastard won’t be getting back up _ , Rick thought.

          In addition to the blessed rounds, the weapon also contained a long clip with 16 holy water burst rounds that tucked into the base of the handle. As this ammunition was much easier to craft, Rick didn’t have an issue with stocking up backup rounds on his person. Usually, he kept a couple extra clips on his belt. 

          Though his belt was nowhere to be seen, the sight of his left gun was more than inspiring. It was identifiable by the second interesting detail of the Twins. Both weapons had silver bases. The right gun came equipped with white areas of detailing. The left, the one before its owner now, had black-stained body covers. It was also marked intricately and opposite of its brother with the Gunslinger’s sigil on the outer side, the left side, and his name on the inner half of the muzzle, on the right. 

          He would need to mourn the loss of the companion piece, but he was head over heels to see he wasn't without some part of his beloved equipment.

          “The other one is here too,” Morty said in haste. He tucked the weapon back under the mattress, careful to make it as inconspicuous as possible under the thin mat. “Your clothes are tied to the base of the cot. Hopefully they won’t be noticed.”

          “Thank you, Morty.” Rick’s very soul felt full again, despite the fatigue he knew he still suffered. “You don't know what those mean to me.”

          Rick’s words stirred Morty in an unusual way. He didn't smile, like the older man had hoped he would. Rather, Morty merely nodded and stood. “I told you, I cannot do this alone.”

          Hesitation. That’s what Rick sensed in Morty. He wanted to be happy, wanted to take the praise, but the boy was so wrapped up in everything, that he wouldn't allow himself to become distracted. 

          That was half-right, but Rick often underestimated the effects he had on other people. Even if he could identify the symptoms, he often forgot that people could come to look up to him or want to be seen right by him.

          Regardless, Morty was eager to make  _ something  _ happen, and he had given Rick just what he’d need to wipe the Little Brothers of Aluria off the map. 

          “I’ll come back for you  _ tonight _ ,” Morty said.

          “Tonight?” Rick was a touch surprised. Though he was ready to get a move on emotionally, he hadn’t really tested his body out and wasn't certain if it would operate under sudden pressure. 

          “Yes. We can’t wait any longer than that.”

          “Why?” Rick asked. His eyes tried to find Morty’s so that he could better read the boy’s urgency. However, Morty focused on checking the security of the items and then stood without meeting Rick’s gaze. Instead, Rick’s attention landed on that single auburn curl that stuck out by the boy’s right ear. Rick’s impulse to twist it around his finger was strong. 

          “Do you really want to find out?” Morty’s tone was fussy now, brattish and demanding. 

          Rick wasn’t sure what to think about the boy. He always seemed to be thinking about something more than he’d say. Instead of arguing with the nurse who had reunited him with hope, Rick decided to play nice. “Great. Thanks. So when should I move?”

          “After dinner. One hour should do it. The others will go to the chapel to pray.” There was a sudden pause from the boy, who looked very much like he just caught himself habitually repeating an obvious lie. “They’ll be resting in the cave up the hill,” he corrected himself. “I’ll come for you once I can slip away.”

          There wasn't much more to be said, for after making sure Rick understood the plan, Morty left. And not a moment too soon.

          “Rick?” Mortimer entered the tent just minutes after Morty had passed through the flaps. Morten followed the eldest Brother with an irritated expression and one cheek lit up in dark red. The leader’s expression mostly hid his aggression, but there was a hint of annoyance causing his left brow to furrow at the center. “Morten tells me you have some concerns.”

          It took Rick a second to remember the lie he was perpetuating. He focused on not glancing at the cot below, though he was quite anxious his stash would be found out. Still, he recalled his part and began to run through the scene.

          “Where’s my granddaughter, Mortimer?” he asked sternly. “She’s not in her bed and your help here has said some very unusual things.”

          Morten scoffed but held his tongue, an interesting change in behavior, while Mortimer sighed softly and made an expression like he was about to deliver some very poor news.

          “My condolences, Mr. Smithy, but I’m afraid your granddaughter's condition was far worse than we had realized. She had begun to convulse and scream in the middle of the night. We came to aid her, but alas, the girl was in such a state of agony that she put up a fight with us.” The words came out with such ease that Rick wondered how many times he had given the same speech to others in this same position. “We had to sedate her and move her to the surgical tent.” Mortimer made a face twisted in pity and disgust. It was his best acting yet. “Poor dear. Her stomach was bloated with infection. We had to work quickly.”

          Rick ran through the motions. He portrayed himself as an exhausted, bewildered grandparent who kept asking to see his kin. Mortimer played along with him, refusing him as politely as he’d like. They both had a gap of details, Rick realized. Mortimer didn’t seem to know for sure what Rick knew. At the same time, it was Rick’s understanding that he was equally in the dark.

          In the end, Rick had to agree to let it go and allow Summer “time to heal.” Mortimer made Morten apologize for his inappropriate behavior, and then the two left. 

          Rick was able to breathe a sigh of relief that the garbs and weapons had gone undetected, but there were three meals to get through and that meant at least three more chances for disaster. 

          Mortavier was sent in to give Rick his breakfast. The usually quiet one of the quintuplets surprised Rick by being bizarrely chatty. He apologized about Summer’s absence and explained that he wouldn’t know what he’d do if he were in Rick’s position and Morthius were the one missing in action. It was sincere-sounding and almost made Rick want to consider the nurse something more than a mindless heathen that had killed two good people in front of the old man and stolen time with him sexually. But it wasn’t enough, because nothing would ever make the uncontrolled appetites of their sort okay.

          Thankfully, Mortavier didn’t notice the items hidden beneath the mattress. Not during breakfast and not during lunch that afternoon. 

          Rick nibbled on his last tricket leaf every hour or so after breakfast. He didn’t bother to sleep, wanting to keep his mind in an active and ready state. Likely, he couldn't have slept even if he had wanted to. His nerves were all blazing. The synapses between every brain cell launched messages to one another, each alerting the greater structure that it was almost time to get up and go. He felt anxious and admittedly excited. Nighttime couldn’t come soon enough, though he reasoned that he should be more cautious than he was being.

          Morthius had traded places with Mortavier for supper. The being who had sawed the flesh and bone of Jerry’s broken form carried the evil tool in with him as he delivered the soup. Rick pretended to be past the point of exhaustion, barely able to lift his head from the ashberry root and added stress to his system. It earned him no respect from the cruel-eyed nurse, but it did keep Morthius bored and eager to leave. When the soup was devoured, Rick let his head lull and his eyes flutter. Then he closed the lids and started to softly snore the way he knew was most convincing. 

          On cue, Morthius left Rick alone at that point, having little interest in earning Mortimer’s punishment for touching the food stock out of turn, more than likely. Rick waited a few minutes just to make sure he was alone. Once he was sure he would be safe, he shook the growing root-induced fog from his head and pulled out the tricket leaf. He knew he needed a boost to battle the thick dose of root tonight’s meal contained, so he put a fourth of the leaf into his mouth and tore off a piece. 

          Chewing the leaf slowly ensured that the release of the chemicals in the plump, chlorophyll-filled skin would be steady, but the effects still hit him hard. 

          Rick’s body shook all over as a cold fever made its way through his body. He felt his heart start to race and beat so hard against the inner walls of his ribcage that the irrational part of his mind was sure the bones would crack and break. He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw, fists, and toes as his muscles spasmed and throbbed with heavy pain.

          Luckily, the symptoms were bearable, and they ended after just half an hour. The time spent in the disorienting state left Rick feeling nauseated and almost sure it had been closer to three hours instead. 

_           Did the sun just go down, or was that a while ago? _

          Rick knew that he couldn't be sure, but he felt it would be better to be ready than not. After all, Morty had said to be ready an hour after the last meal, hadn’t he? And there seemed no harm in getting dressed early. 

_           If one finds their way back here, I’ll have the Twins deal with them. _

          Rick did wait, however. Fifteen more minutes or so, actually. He needed his guns and the security of real clothing, but he hadn’t realized how little desire he’d have to get out of the bindings on his own. 

          Eventually though, the call to freedom won him over, and he started untangling himself from the spiderweb of belts and harnesses and straps. First his arms. Then he flexed his shoulders and made sure the Doctors wouldn’t mind his motion. They stopped hissing, but that seemed safer than the louder, higher-pitched screech they gave off when they were pissed.

          “Easy does it,” he whispered, and slowly and steadily he managed to hold his weight on his arms and slip his legs out of their loops. 

          His biceps flexed, and the veins in his forearms bulged as he lowered himself into a position not unlike the vertical one Jerry had been in during much of Rick’s time with the man. Rick wrapped one of the straps meant for his arms around his lower arm and fist, then—with his free hand—he felt for any kind of belt hook or latch on the hip harness that would loosen or disengage it. 

          Thankfully, his attentive fingers found a metal pressure plate that, when he pressed down on one side of it, instantly released the thick fabric of the belt hugging his right thigh. The space between leg and crotch felt instant relief that Rick had sorely forgotten he’d been yearning for at least a week ago. He straightened his toes so that they stood on the soft surface of the cot below, then he reached around and unclasped the second side. 

          All at once, Rick dropped onto his feet, on the surface of the simple bedding. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of wings pounded behind Rick. He barely noticed and couldn’t look back to see the swarm dispersed  due to the repercussions of his fall. 

          The man winced from the surging pain that shot up and through both of his legs. His lower spine ached in a terrible way, and that made the rest of his body hurt too. Rick seethed between tightly closed teeth to keep from making less manly sounds. It seemed the Doctors couldn't rid him of every side effect after all. 

          “Son of a—” Then the Gunslinger reminded himself of the old proverb. “Mind over matter, Sanchez. Don’t be a baby.”

          It took some time, but Rick managed to force himself off the bed and onto the floor. He did some basic stretches to try and loosen up his stiff joints and swollen muscles. It only occurred to him then that he wasn’t sure where the Doctors were. 

          Glancing around, it took Rick a long moment to discern that the large, fuzzy black moths must have flown off. He couldn't hear their hissing or their flapping any longer. 

          “Better be quick,” Rick decided. “Just in case they went to rat on me.”

          Rick bent down and lifted the mattress up and off the frame of the cot. He was frankly amazed at what Morty had been able to hide so cleanly. 

          Rick’s underwear was nowhere to be seen, but his pants, boots, button-up, vest, and duster were all present. His shotgun and machete were missing, but the Twins and his preferred dagger were right where they belonged, with their master. The boy had even brought him his belt, though the entire row of shotgun salt and sulfur cartridges was missing. Still, the only things he really missed were his necklace, his hat, and his mask. But he could always pick up or craft replacements for the last two. 

          Getting dressed felt strange at first, but even though the material was a bit uncomfortable without his undershirt, underwear, or socks, it felt damn good to get out of the patient’s gown.

          “Welcome home, babies,” he purred out like a pleased dragon. He held the Twins out in front of himself to inspect. 

          Little Sister, the black one he held in his left hand, seemed happier to be back with her owner, and to be reunited with Little Brother, the white pistol Rick held onto in the grip of his right hand. He hadn’t chosen the names. Birdson had given Rick the titles on the day he handed the miracle inventions down to Sanchez upon his graduation as a full-fledged Gunslinger. Despite the recent issues with such similarly title-holding creatures, Rick still acknowledged his inanimate treasures with a paternal kind of affection.

 

          “Where is he?” Rick muttered, low enough to not disturb any nearby stalkers. 

          The Gunslinger was dressed, stretched, and ready to go. Morty had told Rick to wait for him, but he hadn’t said how long it might take. Rick realized, though, that anything was possible. He could have been caught on his way here. There may have been an incident that kept the others active past the hours Morty had expected. Morten might have grabbed the young, pretty nurse in retaliation to his earlier humiliation. 

_           Maybe he left you. Maybe he saw a window of opportunity and he grabbed it. You have your guns. Just leave.  _

          “Damn it, Morty. Come on, kid.” 

          Rick was the sort of man who usually, ultimately, looked out for number one. That was why he had been so confused about his need to try and save the two other patients in the hellspawns’ clutches. That was why he had felt so drained by Summer’s death. He had  _ wanted _ to save her. That had been a mistake on his part. 

_           Caring means crying! _ That was what Mickey used to say. 

          But Rick had little control over who he grew attached to and who he didn’t. That was made apparent by the fact that he  _ cared _ if Morty showed up or not. He  _ wanted  _ to leave  _ with _ Morty. Not without him. 

          Wait and wait as he did, though, Morty didn’t show. What must have been two hours passed, and Rick felt his instincts telling him it was time to move on, Morty or no Morty. 

          “Sorry, kid,” he said solemnly. “I can’t risk staying here much longer.”

          “You’re right,” a startling voice said from the doorway.

          Rick’s guns were out and pointed at the entryway before the first syllable of the statement even finished. It seemed that there were some things an unwanted vacation couldn’t work out of those old muscles. 

          The newcomer continued to speak. “There’s not a lot of time before daybreak Traveling as far as we can tonight is the best move.”

          At first, Rick wasn’t entirely sure who he was looking at. Before him stood a young man with smooth, pale skin and bright peridot eyes. If it hadn’t been for everything else, Rick wouldn’t have second guessed the boy was Morty. However, his silky auburn hair was visible and pulled back into a high, medium-length ponytail that waved beautifully in thick sections. It was pulled tight over his scalp. However, a single stubborn curl that poked out of place by his right ear. A familiar and tantalizing curl that pulled Sanchez’s attention. 

          “Morty?” It was obvious, now that he considered the situation, who the boy was, but he asked all the same. 

          “No. I’m the tooth goblin.” Morty rolled his eyes and walked over to Rick. “At least you’re fast.” The boy referred to the speed at which Rick had unholstered his guns, but also how he had slipped them back into place just as smoothly right then. “Save the bullets for  _ them _ , okay, Ranger Rick?” 

          Morty walked forward with arms full with things Rick hadn’t paid close attention to yet. The young man––it was more apparent without the headdress that he was just a beautiful boy and not an actual girl––released his load onto the nearest cot. “I couldn’t bring it all in earlier or hide it. I hope this is enough for you. We can’t go back for the rest.”

          “Holy shit!” Rick’s hat, complete with goggles around the crown’s base, sat on top of the pile. Rick shook it out and placed it on his head, beaming with satisfaction. “Way to go, lad! I thought I’d lost this forever.”

          “If it didn’t have those goggles or the thick padding, I would have left it,” Morty said, pretending he didn’t care for the old man’s good mood. “Here. Take the rest of your shit.” Morty gestured to the small pile. Rick moved for his shotgun with a grin on his face, but grunted as it was snatched away. “Uh-uh. This is mine, Gramps.” Morty lifted the shotgun up and pulled back the handle from the bottom of the barrels. He pulled two very familiar shotgun shells from his waist and placed them in the chambers, then cocked the gun into ready position. He held the weapon in what Rick had to admit was a rather stylish and badass pose.

          Now that Morty wasn’t holding up all the things in front of him, Rick finally took in the rest of the boy’s intriguing differences. His white dress and apron were long gone. Instead, Morty wore a pair of dark slacks that hugged his hips and rear a little too well for Rick’s comfort, a white button-up tucked in at a black belt, and a light-brown duster. He had Rick’s shotgun holster put on under the coat. Rick recognized the black straps immediately. He had taken the weapon and its container for himself, along with the bullets. Rick could see the cartridges were sitting in a lidless belt case. 

          “Stop staring and get ready, Rick! We don’t have a lot of time.”

          “Right.” 

          Rick noted that the boy had stolen his scarf and machete as well, but he said nothing of the thievery. If that’s all Morty had wanted from him for his services, the Gunslinger knew he could sleep easy with that. 

          When Rick noticed what else lay in the pile, his heart bounced in his chest from relief and joy. Not only had Morty pecured the demon hunter’s mask, he had brought along a few of his other knifes and his necklace as well. 

          “Thank you,” Rick mentioned, slipping everything into place. The last item was the necklace that he pulled over his head and tucked into his shirt. 

          “Sure,” Morty said in an impatient huff, but Rick could see his ears and cheeks turning pink. “Let’s just get out of here, all right?”

          “Sounds good to me.” 

          The two hoisted the small packs that Morty had prepared, one carrying a small amount of provisions and the other holding something Rick wasn’t privy to, and they started to head towards the door. It seemed like they were going to make it out of there tonight after all. Rick thought to ask if they were going up to the cave on the hill to empty a few rounds into the sleeping Brothers, but before he could say anything, both of them were suddenly blasted into the back of the tent by an incredible force. Rick skidded across the dirt floor, and Morty bounced off of one cot and crashed into another, flipping it and scooting it into its far neighbor. 

          “Ugh! You—ou okay, Morty?” Rick groaned as he slowly rose to his feet. 

          “Yeah.” Morty rubbed his head, and Rick heard a soft jingle from his white bells. Then Rick looked forward and glared through the darkness at what he saw. 

          “Morten,” Rick seethed. Of course he had broken curfew to come sneak another taste of Rick. The hunter realized that he should have been expecting as much. 

          “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Morty…” Morten’s irises glowed a haunting ruby in the dark even though he maintained his human illusion. 

          Rick hadn’t expected the creature to have the ability to control an element in such a way. He realized that he had foolishly underestimated whatever the Brothers really were, working off of their habits to make a profile based on other known monsters. Some vampires could levitate, that was true. And succubi could fly. But neither were elementals. Both had power over the minds, but none that Rick knew of could bend fire, water, or wind to their will. It seemed that getting rid of the quartet was going to be a much more daunting task than originally anticipated. 

          “Morten!” Morty straightened himself out and half-raised his shotgun. “You don’t have to die tonight. Just let us go.” 

          Rick was impressed by the brave, if not obviously cocky, words of his partner. He wasn’t sure taunting Morten would help their situation, but he let the boy speak to the other demon all the same. After all, it was his would-be family. His night of reckoning. 

          “Such ballsy words, Morty! Hahaha! You’ve finally gone and grown a pair, I guess.” Morten laughed, and then he ran his tongue between his lips lewdly. “I knew you were wet for the old guy, Morty. But I didn’t take you for a love-or-die sort.”

          “Burn in Hell, Morten! Ii-It’s got nothing to do with that!” Morty raised the gun up to shooting level. “Now back off, or you’ll regret it. I swear!” 

          Morten had himself another good hard chuckle, but when Morty didn’t budge and the demon finally noticed that Rick too had his guns at the ready, he stopped laughing altogether and seemed to grow very angry. 

          “Put the toys away and go  _ pray _ ,  _ Little Brother _ .” Morten’s words were laced with a curse. When no one made a move to obey him, Morten’s fangs began to grow outside of the glamour. “You can’t take him, Morty. We’re going to  _ share _ him. Didn’t you hear what Mortimer said? We’re going to keep him! Isn’t that what you wanted?”

          “No,” Morty said. “I never wanted any of this.” 

          Morten took a step forward, and Morty started to pull his trigger. The monster’s ears must have picked the sound up, because he froze in his tracks and started to growl like a dog poked one two many times. 

          “Don’t you dare,” Morty threatened. “Last warning. Leave.” 

          Morten stood straight and cocked his head unnaturally to the side in a ghoulish manner. His eyes opened wide, and Rick watched the horror unfold itself before them. 

          “You ungrateful whelp,” Morten said. “You greedy little cow. How dare you!?” 

          The skin around Morten’s eyes started to darken and sink inward, holding shape with his skull as the flesh blackened. His lips pulled back into a snarl to reveal teeth shifting into the demonic set. Arms started to stretch out, too long for the rest of the body, and his hands grew more dramatically from his slender wrists. Fingers, long and nimble, wrinkled as the skin pulled too tight to the bones. Each joint became the length of a single digit, and from the ends of each tip sprouted a terrible talon. 

          Rick had seen the monsters in their true forms, but the display of melding between the two was a frightful show to behold. Neither he nor Morty flinched, however, as Morten finally took his gangly, raggedy demonic form. The monster allowed his tongue to lull from between his jaws. It draped down like a wriggling serpent and twitched at the end. 

          Morten hunched forward, the tattered scraps of his robes blowing gently in a soft breeze that only touched him. “I won’t let you take him. I don’t care if you are the next prince.” 

          Rick realized that the voice he was hearing didn’t come solely from the monster's mouth. It couldn’t have with the thick organ hanging from it. The Brothers were also telepathic to some extent, it seemed. Either that, or Rick had no comprehension on how the creature spoke so clearly. 

          The winds around Morten picked up speed and made an intimidating show of blowing about the demon’s garbs and gray, thinned hairs. Rick sensed he was preparing for an attack. 

_           If we fire at him, the others will almost assuredly hear us. We have to make this quick! _

          “Morty,” Rick said. “How do you kill your kind?”

          “I’m not sure,” Morty admitted. “I was hoping you’d know.” 


	7. Elementals. The fallen. True form.

_Artwork by the incredible[Mrs Sundae](https://twitter.com/SundaeMrs)!_

 

“Look out!” Rick called out to Morty. Though the boy was brave and dressed like a proper wastelander, it was clear to Rick that his pretty partner had very little experience with any sort of real combat.

          Morten’s left arm jerked forward and waved out before him. The motion launched a terrible gale that pierced the surrounding air like an arrow and smacked into Morty’s shaken form.

          Rick had sensed the attack coming and had tried to warn Morty, but the assault came suddenly and the boy had no chance to prepare.

          The gust slammed into Morty’s chest and sent the boy hurtling backwards into the far wall of the medical tent, launching hundreds of Doctors scrambling into the air. That’s where they had disappeared to. They had collected on the walls of the tent. No longer needed, so no longer active.

          With an audible tear, Morty was released  into the outer world, and Rick felt his patience completely dwindle. He watched Morten start walking towards the gap in the back wall, paying no mind to the Gunslinger. The brat was ignorant of Rick’s abilities, and apparently saw no reason to fear normal rounds from an old man’s pistols.

          It was time for Rick to see if he still had what it took to take down a demon.

          “Hey! Morten!” Rick called to the monster, grabbing his attention at once.

          “What now, _Rick_?” Morten hissed. “Can’t you see I’m a little busy putting my baby brother in his place?”

          The urge to shoot the demon was great, but he heard no signs of other wooden bells clacking and he wanted to keep it that way. It seemed that either Morten had not thought it necessary to reach out to the others through any means, telepathically or otherwise, or that he couldn’t. And that was just fine by Rick.

          “I think he gets the idea,” the Gunslinger said, though his tone was much more relaxed than the storm in his head. He was certain he understood Morten. After all their unwanted time together, Rick was sure that the demon was slower of casual wit than the others. Rick used this to his advantage and gave the demon a handsome smile as he lowered his guns. “To be honest...” He began his lie, speaking in a way that others had accused of being sexual and alluring. “I didn’t know what the hell was going on. Morty just stormed in and told me to get dressed. I thought he was going to take me to Summer.”

          It was actually sad how easily the maneuver worked on Morten. The demon’s browline unfurled, and the angry grimace that had been plaguing his already hideous face vanished. In its place, Rick saw a hint of a curious young man closer to the glamour than was comfortable.

 _Looks like I’ve got him_ , Rick thought. He holstered his guns but did not lock them down. His right hand did, however, tactfully unclasp the latch over the Little Brother’s neighbor.

          “I didn’t realize you were a Great Spirit,” Rick growled.

          Great Spirit was the title given to monsters of various sorts by ignorant commonfolk. The term was used mostly by people in tribes to the far south and the cities of the even further northwest. Difference of faith and skepticism kept most people confused about the danger of creatures such as the likes of the Brothers. Some didn’t even believe in the existence of such beasts, even in the presence of their handiwork.

          Rick wasn’t ignorant nor was he a spiritualist, but he figured the traveling band of demons had egos that would allow them to believe a human could come to worship them, even in their grotesque true forms. Morten, at least, had fallen for the bait.

          “I should have, I suppose.” Rick took a few steps closer to Morten, whose guard had visibly lowered almost completely. “The way my heart pounds when you’re near…” Rick feigned a sense of awe well. “I just thought you were some nasty little chapel boy, come to flirt. But now I _understand_.”

          “Rick!” Morty cried. “What are you doing!?” The boy had righted himself from off the ground and entered to find the confusing scene. “Get away from him!”

_So even Morty can’t tell this is a charade. Good._

          “Shut up!” Morten hissed at Morty before turning his attention back to Rick. The heathen grinned a toothy smile armed with tiny daggers and two long swords. Then he addressed Rick once more. “You aren’t afraid of my true form, _human_?”

          It was clear to Rick that Morten was getting off on the potential power play, which was good, but the Gunslinger could hear the anxiety riling Morty up. He didn’t want the boy to interfere, to ruin his plan or get himself thrown around any more, so he spoke out to him. “It’s okay, Morty!” He prayed the boy would trust him. “I _understand now_ .” He couldn’t be too obvious about his intentions. Still, he looked towards Morty and tried to suggest to him with his eyes alone that he was in the process of a plan. “You were trying to steal me away, to keep me from my fate. I appreciate the effort, lad.” Rick turned back towards Morten then. They were so close now that Rick’s clothes shifted in Morten’s supernatural breeze. “But I don’t _want_ saved.”

          Morty paused behind Rick, though the hunter didn’t know if it was from a sense of being lost or of understanding.

          Regardless, Morten was beaming with mischievous and prideful glee. “You wish to give yourself to me, Rick?”

          “I can’t give you what’s already yours.” It was a cheesy line, the kind of thing Rick thought Mickey would have used on a bar maiden. It worked.

          Morten cackled wickedly and wrapped his long arms around Rick. He pulled the man close. The Gunslinger held his breath at first then took in small amounts at a time to keep from gagging on the fiend’s acrid fetor. Morten’s tongue reached up from its dangling place and ran along Rick’s duster’s lapel and then his face.

          “Ohh~” Rick suddenly moaned. The accidental sound had been pulled from him without warning. Apparently, it was no accident that Rick’s libido had been increased during the Brothers’ feedings. There was definitely some kind of absorbable aphrodisiac in the saliva, because as soon as Morten’s tongue reached Rick’s skin, the man’s cock stirred to life. An almost painful erection sprang forth and bulged at the crotch of his pants. “Shit!”

          Morten laughed again and let his tongue circle Rick’s strong, stubbly jaw. The demon seemed to find the feeling of the tiny, coarse hairs particularly fun to stroke with the organ, because the demon swiveled his tongue across the surface many times. That was when Rick realized—on a much lighter note—that at least one of the Brothers must have been shaving him while he slept. He wondered who, then mentally shrugged it off to focus on not getting caught up in Morten’s pheromones.

          “Your flavor is the best,” Morten purred. His voice was heavy with arousal as he licked the Gunslinger’s face like a lollipop. “That’s why Mortimer said we could keep you.”

          “Did he say that?” Rick asked, keeping his tone even, though the longer he stayed in close proximity to Morten, the harder that was.

          “Yes~!” The answer sounded as though Rick were already balls deep inside the demon’s ass. It startled Rick, but he grinned. The demon was lost in his own delusions.

          “That’s really interesting. I didn’t realize I was so delicious.” His left hand reached up and cupped Morten’s right cheek. The skin there was as leathery and dusty as Rick had imagined it would be.

          The demon let out a soft churring sound that might have been cute from the throat of something less horrifying. Morten pressed into the accepting touch and allowed Rick to tickle his ear and work the hand around to the back of his head. “I could never tire of _your_ taste, Rick.” Morten’s snake-like tongue slithered down and threatened to tease the other man’s groin.

          “Is that so?” Rick mused. “And tell, me, Morten. Why do you think it is I taste so good?” The Gunslinger’s right hand clasped not around a part of Morten, but on the handle of his own favored dagger at his belt. His left hand carefully and seductively massaged the back of the demon’s nearly bald head, readying to secure it in place. “Do you just like how the elderly settle on your tongue?”

          Morten giggled then and snorted in a kind of disregarding way. “Not at all!” He leaned his head back more firmly into Rick’s touch, exposing his long, skinny throat. “I don’t know what it is about you. You’re just… _different._ ”

          “Must be all the holy water they made me drink during my training,” Rick joked.

          That seemed to pull Morten’s focus, but only loosely. His head cocked to the side slightly, and his browline scrunched up inquisitively. “Huh?”

          Fastest hands in the wastelands. That’s what his peers always said, and they were right.

          Morten’s beady red eyes stared into Rick’s unwavering gaze. A look of shock held frozen in place on his features, locked there by the eleven inches of blessed silver-iron that had been jammed through his lower jaw.

          The Nephilim Claw, a dagger forged in spell fire and blessed and sculpted by the high monks of the Holy Order, was Rick’s fourth-most prized possession—after his necklace and guns, of course. Its double-sided blade sliced the densest flesh with ease. Even bone could be penetrated with relative success in the hands of a strong hunter like Sanchez.

          Now the Claw was lodged through Morten’s skull, entering at the base and slicing through whatever brain the demon might possess. It was clear that the creature knew something was amiss, that he was in pain, but exactly what had transpired didn’t seem to have registered yet. Rick, being the efficient killer he was, didn’t give the demon the time he needed to sort out that he was done for.

          Rick placed his left hand under Morten’s jaw and pushed up on his head, and he used his right to pull the dagger down and out. The intricately carved runes on the center of the blade’s two sides glowed a bright orange that cast a fiery light on the faces of both men. Steam poured out of the open slit left by the dagger, and the hunter could hear the effects of the incantation taking place inside the monster’s skull.

          As the interior burned away like dry firewood, Rick kept Morten’s body upright by his head, gripping around his mouth so tightly that his fingertips felt the bevel and dips between individuals in the rows of sharp teeth on the other side of cheek meat. He saw Morten struggle to understand that he was dying, and could not separate that look from the moment of actual death. There was no time for his eyes to glaze over or dull, because they rapidly started to smoke around the orbs. Then holy fire blew out of the sockets, and Rick finally let Morten go.

          The corpse hit the floor with a loud _THUD!_ The wind that Morten had summoned was gone. The only air circulating now came from the hole in the tent where Morty still stood, now gawking at the visage of one of his kind being burned from the inside out. Rick turned and watched the boy, familiar with how the scene he’d caused would go. He was more interested in how Morty might take things.

          As Morty witnessed the thousands of glowing hot cracks from all along Morten’s body appear, starting at his head and traveling down his spine and through his veins like a fast-acting virus, the boy just stared. The burst of fire reflected on his clothes and skin, but Rick was captivated by the way the light danced over his face and turned the color of his auburn hair more vibrant and the green of his eyes almost yellow. Then the death flare settled and Rick knew there was only ash left behind.

          “Are you all right?” the hunter asked Morty. The boy had wanted to escape, had hated the others to a point, but had he been prepared to see them die?

          Apparently so. Morty smiled at Rick and laughed. “You asshole,” he said in a chipper tone that surprised Rick. “You had me going! I-I almost thought that—that, you know. Geez! Well, anyway. What the hell was _that_?”

          “That,” Rick started with a smile, “was progress.”

          “I-I’ve never seen anything like that before!” Morty’s eyes were lit up like a child’s admiring an idol up close.

          The enthusiasm made Rick feel a touch embarrassed, and the boner Morten had left him with felt instantly more noticable and out of place.

          Nevertheless, Rick wiped his dagger off on a sheet from one of the cots and looked it over. It was clean, and the runes had returned to their cool, metallic hue.

          “Yeah,” Rick said. “But you can gush about it later. We need to get out of here.”

          “R-right!”

_Is it just me, or is he stuttering more now that he’s perkier?_

 

          The two exited the medical tent, and Rick got his first look at the outside world in what felt like years. He took in a deep breath, let the frigid desert night air fill his lungs, and then heaved a satisfied sigh. Freedom was a beautiful thing.

          Rick took in the surroundings, making a mental map of the area. They were near the base of a small mountain. He wasn’t certain, but he thought it was the peak he had seen from a distance, a point on the landscape behind the town of Aluria as he had moved towards it so many days ago. The dirt path he stood on swerved around many large boulders that would have to be broken down into smaller boulders before a Clydesdale and cart could tote them away. Up a ways, the stone-littered ground turned abruptly into a sheer, craggy cliff.

          The man’s eyes still worked surprisingly well for their age. Even in the darkness of the evening, only illuminated modestly by the pale-blue light from the fat crescent moon above, Rick could see that there was a wide mouth to a cave resting too far up the steep wall for any normal person to reach.

 _Perhaps they_ **_can_ ** _fly_ , Rick thought. The idea was realistic, but it didn’t sit well with him. He prefered his battles to take place on the ground. _I guess there’s no way for me to get into the cave to off those bastards after all. Smart nesting place, you little shits._

          “Come on!” Morty called to Rick in a whispery shout. He had already started his way up the rocky path. “This way!”

          Rick lifted a hand to signal he was coming, and Morty turned and kept going. The Gunslinger was grateful his legs seemed to be strong enough to keep him moving, because the eager boy didn’t appear to have the wherewithal to wait up or assist anyone. Rick began to follow Morty. However, before leaving the area, Rick turned to take a look at the place that had been his prison for all those weeks. His eyes widened as he realized he’d been fooled again.

          The draping white sheets he had been looking at the back of for such a long time didn’t actually exist. The spacious and clean hospice, it turned out, was as much a lie as the faces the four evil Brothers often wore. What Rick saw, now that he was on the outside, the structure was a small, dirty tent once an unbleached gray but now a mix of black, brown, and yellow stains. There were tiny holes here and there, and the ends were all choppy and worn down. The whole thing couldn’t have fit more than four cots all together, and even then, Rick thought it would be a claustrophobic fit with the four demonic nurses piled inside too.

          Part of him wanted to venture back inside, to see what kind of dingy and millipede-infested world he had actually been living in, but there wasn’t time for that. He turned and started off in Morty’s direction.

          To get safely down from the base of the mountain and back out into the open desert, apparently one had to go up quite a ways first. Though the outer edge of the path Morty led Rick on had a drop more diagonal than the sharp incline of the mountain wall, it was still much too steep to simply walk down. If one tried, one would almost assuredly pick up pace rapidly, slide a short ways, then trip over one of the protruding rocks or baby cacti, and then go tumbling head over heels in a dramatic fall that would last several long seconds. They would probably be dead from a broken neck or twisted spine before they reached the sandy plateau at the bottom of the hill.

          So around the mountain’s base they went, steadily moving upward so that they could eventually get to what Rick guessed must have been a less dangerous route.

          “Wait,” Morty suddenly barked.

          Rick didn’t have to be told twice. His muscles tensed, and he began listening for any hints of danger, but he heard nothing. Still, Morty held perfectly motionless. Whatever had caught his attention was enough of a possible threat that he held his breath as he stood there.

          Then the Gunslinger heard what Morty had picked up on first. In the distance, there was soft humming and the gentle clatter of someone’s wooden bells. Morten, it seemed, had not been the only Brother out past bedtime.

          Morty lifted up what had been Rick’s scarf and tied it like a mask around the bottom half of his face. Rick thought the boy looked rather like a junior bank robber, which was amusing but irrelevant to the situation. He realized almost instantly that Morty had done this to tie off the bells in his earlobes, to keep them from jingling as he walked.

 _He’s undertrained_ , Rick thought. _But he has good instincts._

          The two crept around a particularly large cluster of boulders. Rick noted the reek of sulfur growing stronger. The hunter started coming up with all the supernatural reasons he might be smelling it. However, as they turned the corner, he realized that the meaning was much less sinister than anything he had conjured.

 _Mortimer chose an excellent spot to set up camp_ , Rick thought. _A high- ridge cave to keep him and his flock safe while they rested, and a damn hot spring in their backyard!_

          He didn’t know if the heat or levels were safe for human use, but apparently they were ample for the demon that was relaxing in the boiling pool.

          “Mortavier,” Morty mouthed silently to Rick. Rick nodded and glanced around. He didn’t see anyone else about, and Morty hadn’t picked up on anything by the look on his face.

          It was a dirty move, sneaking up behind the relaxing boy as he washed himself merrily in the natural hot tub. Rick felt especially aggravated by the fact that the little demon had chosen to sport his human costume while doing so. It made the researcher inside the slayer yearn to ask the boy _why_ he wanted to waste energy wearing the glamour when there was no prey around to see it. He thought it might be possible that even some of the others, besides Morty, might carry more human-like traits. But it didn’t matter. The kill was set up. The boy was perfectly situated and completely at ease. Why should Mortavier have suspected that his food source would be able to keep his eyes open, much less be able to sneak all the way out there and thrust a massive dagger up through the base of his skull?

          He hadn’t suspected a thing. The creature wearing a young man’s beauty had been humming innocently when Rick promptly ended his long life.

          Rick waited until the smoke began before he removed his blade. There were no screams between existence and ash, just the crackling of holy fire and a whisper from between the breaks in the skin. Rick watched this time, witnessing the end to something with surely enough stories and secrets to fill a hundred journals or more.

          It felt like a waste, but Sanchez knew better than to let his curiosity dictate his decisions. Usually. Survival was the first priority. It had to be. And killing _all_ of the Brothers he could get his hands on seemed like the best way to ensure he’d make it to the Ivory Tower alive.

          “I hated him the least,” Morty muttered.

          There was something like sympathy in his words that made Rick’s mind race with questions, but he kept them quiet and for later. “At least he went quick, then.” That was all the Gunslinger could muster up for comfort. “Let’s get going.”

          “ _YOU!_ ” A terrible, deep, and enraged voice spoke up from behind Rick and Morty. They simultaneously spun on their heels to face the newcomer.

          Morthius stood before the duo, his eyes blown out and glowing a violent ruby despite his human form. His fangs were already growing out of once soft pink gums, and his fingertips split open as sharp, pointed nails expanded outward. His teeth gnashed together and his shoulders arched up as he flexed his suddenly very powerful-looking arms. He was all but nude, only a pair of skin tight shorts masking his hips, which had been Rick’s once upon a time. However, there was no shame. Only rage.

          “What have you **_done_ **!?” Morthius howled. His eyes, Rick realized, were not locked on them, but on the ash-soiled spot where Mortavier had just been. This, like so many things, intrigued Rick, but there were more important matters at hand, like the sparks.

          At Morthius’s feet rested a bouquet of desert flowers, bundled together and tied off with a simple strip of leather. Many of the petals and individual stems had scattered from their homes, evidence of how roughly the bunch had smacked the ground. The golden dry grass poking out of the discarded gift caught Rick’s attention as the ends of the dehydrated slivers started to flash. Like the sparks that followed the quick pass of flint against steel, this light caught the dry grass on fire, but Rick could only guess the source had to be Morthius himself because nothing else made sense.

          “Oh, god. No.” Morty’s voice had come out as a low and quivering whimper. Rick chanced him a glance and saw that the boy was shivering, an expression of fear marking his face.

 _That can’t be good_ , Rick thought, then turned his gaze back towards the fiery Brother.

          “Why!?” Morthius’s voice boomed, silencing every other living thing in the area. His tone was rife with agony. “Why did you kill Mortavier!?” Now the man’s burning eyes were locked on Morty. “How could you **_do that to him_ ** !? He was kind to you! You—! _You_ —!”

          The very air all around the group became hotter, and it became harder to breath, like the oxygen was being devoured by the sun, but the only radiant force out tonight was Morthius. His palms started to glow, and the forgotten bouquet burst into flames. Then he opened his mouth wide and screamed a booming, mournful call that rattled Rick’s bones painfully. From Morthius’s core, his element grew until the the bright yellow light was visible, coming up from deep inside his throat.

          “Run!” Morty cried in terror, but Rick saw no logic in that tactic. Surely this beast could manage a chase. Instead, he reholstered his dagger and promptly pulled Little Sister into action.

          He took her into both hands for total control and support. His thumb flipped the safety off and switched to holy water rounds. With blinding speed and precision, he unloaded three rounds in quick succession: one into Morthius’s chest where his heart might be, one into his lower abdomen, and one into the center of his forehead. He wasn’t messing around.

          Every shot was flawless, landing just where it was meant to. Upon contact with their targets, the tips exploded. Concentrated doses of holy water sprayed the surrounding areas, instantly weakening the flesh and scalding it. This hurt most demons like hell and made it easier for the silver bullets to slide into their new hosts.

          Morthius stumbled back and fell from the impacts. His howling silenced almost at once. Rick waited, not sure if things would be so easy or not but unwilling to risk going in for the stabbing kill.

          “You—” Morty hummed in awe. “You killed him.”

          Rick’s eyes narrowed. He watched the body closely and noticed a twitch.

          “Get somewhere safe! Now!” Rick called.

          “Huh?” Morty, not used to such action and response, stood there with a confused expression, lifting only one of his brows. “What’s wrong, Rick?”

          All around Morthius, ribbons of yellow flames started to lash around, like the swipes of a hellcat’s mighty claws. Then there was the resurrection. Morthius’s body levitated up, slowly, stiffly righting itself onto its feet, though those feet were no longer on the ground but hovering over it. As the demon rose, the flames turned hotter. The yellow shifted to blue and the radiating heat swallowed up the moisture from the nearby spring.

          Morthius changed with his flames. As they grew more intense, so too did he. His human form burned up to give way to his true demonic one. He looked much like Rick remembered, similar in many ways to how Morten had appeared in his last stand, but Morthius was cut differently. His claws were thinner, his muscles were bulkier, and—though Rick was certain he never sported such features before—two large wings tore from the flesh of his back. These wings, unlike ones Rick had found on many succubi, more closely resembled the wings of an insect than a bat. They reminded Rick of the wings the moths bore, and a connecting line between the species started to draw itself more clearly in Rick’s mind.

          “Oh, hell no.” Rick flipped the switch that closed off the path from the cartridge and opened up the passageway from the revolving chamber. Whatever Morthius was, it seemed to Rick that it wasn’t worth saving his best rounds for a rainy day. In fact, he was fairly certain there was about to be a downpour.

          Without hesitation, Rick pulled the trigger. He wanted the job done before the demon finished leveling up. Unfortunately, only a hollow _click_ rang from the weapon.

          “What the—?” The Gunslinger lifted his gun up and down in a small test of its weight, then his eyes widened as he realized his mistake. “Fuck!”

          “U-uhhh…” Morty whined by Rick’s side. The useless little shit still hadn’t taken off! “Rick?” He sounded less scared than Rick had suspected but still vastly uneasy. “Now’s the time when—when you show me you really know what you’re doing, right?”

          Sanchez growled and reached into the leather pouch on the right side of his belt with his right hand. “Go somewhere and hide, goddamnit!” Rick didn’t have time to explain. His left hand, still holding Little Sister, jerked as he flicked his wrist sideways. With a finger on the correct button, this motion flipped open the revolving chamber, and Rick’s suspicions were confirmed. It wasn’t loaded.

_Those sons of bitches must have unloaded her! I better still have my backups._

          “Rick!”

          The hunter’s fingers had just found what he’d been looking for when Morty yelled. Rick looked up in time to see that Morthius had finished his transformation and had procured himself a rather large and nasty ball of blue flame. Tt was now heading his way.

          “Shit!” Rick dodged the blast with surprising ease, still able to leap out of the way fairly well, but when he landed on his side a few paces left of where there was now a burning hole in the ground, a terrible pain shot through the ribs he had landed on. It reverberated through his nerves and made him groan loudly.

          “Rick!? Are you okay?” Morty called over to Rick, who looked back and saw the boy _still_ standing around, just now a short ways from where the blast had been. When their eyes met, Morty seemed to grow inspired. The boy whipped out the shotgun and took aim at the flying fire demon. “Just go easy and you can see Mortavier in Hell!”

          “Wait!” Rick called, but his voice fell on deaf ears. Morty had pulled the trigger, and the resounding _BANG_ muted the rest of the world. The older man knew that the salt round wouldn’t do much good against such a formidable beast, so he rolled his sore ass up and onto his feet again.

          The shotgun had enough force that the broken fragments of hard salt hit Morthius, even in the air where he hovered. However, Rick had been right in his assessment. The shots only seemed to aggravate Morthius further. This wouldn’t have been too big of a deal, a decent distraction so Rick could load his pistol, except the move seemed to awaken some sense in the demon.

          “ _You_ did this!” Morthius snarled as he accused Morty. “ _You_ let the man go! _You’ve_ been the one keeping him strong!” Two more fireballs began to form just above the monster’s palms. _“You_ led him here, and you **_let_** him kill Mortavier!”

          “Our kind don’t deserve to live in this world!” Morty called back. “Even Mortavier was just another heartless glutton! _I won’t apologize for his death! Or yours!_ ”

          Morty, however, was much better at giving speeches than living up to those promises. Morthius threw both of his fireballs Morty’s way, and the boy dodged them fairly well. But Morty had been so busy avoiding the projectiles that he hadn’t realized Mortavier had dived down towards him after launching them.

          Rick managed to get just three of the blessed rounds into place, the only three he had available in the pouch. He took aim at Mortavier, only to realize that Morty was the demon’s prime objective now, and the rapid descent upon the boy made Mortavier an impossible target. Despite his hunter instincts, Rick didn’t want to risk killing the boy, so he lowered his gun and rushed forward.

          “Agh! Let go!” Morty squirmed in Morthius’s burning grip as he was lifted by his coat into the air. “I said let go!”

          Morthius soared up, the glowing tail of his spiritual fire dancing out behind him as he beat his wings hard to lift them both high into the air. It seemed that, whatever he had planned, he didn’t want the Gunslinger interrupting.

          “Morty!” Rick called. Then, in blind haste of concern, he lifted his gun and fired one blessed round at Morthius’s wings. He’d been careless, though, unfocused on the right thing, and the rare round missed its mark.

          Up above, Rick could only hear Morthius speak because of the supernatural strength of his words. As the being monologued, Rick tried to work up a plan for getting Morty down safely. The best bet seemed to be a better vantage point. Fortunately, there were plenty of rocks to climb just laying around.

          “You have betrayed us, Morty! _We_ are your family! You are one of _us_ ! You were to be our prince! Your white bells were to bring us out of this _mess_ and into a better life! Mortavier _believed_ in that! He believed in _you!_ But you—you’re _glad_ he’s dead!? You ungrateful little shit!”

          Morthius gripped Morty’s coat shut tight around his chest with one hand and then used the other to strangle the boy. Even from below, Rick could hear Morty’s staggered gasps and choking sounds.

          “ _We_ took you in! _We_ fed you and taught you what that _skank_ mortal would not! We protected you and clothed you and loved you! _He_ loved you! You were—” Morthius’s voice turned truly demonic, rumbling deep in a horrendous growl that spoke to his inner suffering. “No more. I’m going to kill you.”

          Rick finally made it to the peak of a rather impressive perch then. He lifted up and took aim with Little Sister. From where he was, he could plant a bullet right above Morthius’s ear and straight through his temple and brain. Honestly, he saw no reason this wouldn’t work, but Morty’s thrashing and purple face had him wanting to play it safe.

_With this bullet, the chest will do just as well, and there’s less chance I’ll miss._

          Thought and the ability to think clearly were important traits, especially for a man like Sanchez, but there was a time and place for everything, and Birdson had always said that Rick’s best work was done when he let his mind go dark. He was right, and because Rick couldn’t stop overthinking the situation, he hesitated. It was only a second, but that was more than he would have wasted any other time.

          But the trigger pulled back and the chamber clicked. Little Sister let loose her best, and the bullet soared from the nozzle towards its target. No flaw in projection. But all was not accounted for. Rick hadn’t noticed one very crucial detail.

          A black blur swept the fiery demon and his victim out of the sky with such speed that the second blessed round simply disappeared into the night. The motion had been so immediate that even Rick didn’t know where the two had gone or how they had seemed to vanish out of midair. Then Rick heard a terrible cracking sound below his boulder and off to one side. When he looked, what had transpired became instantly clearer.

          “Have you lost your mind!?” Mortimer screamed.

          He had been the one to swoop in and mess things up. Morty was now sitting on his ass, massaging his throat and coughing. The eldest Brother looked human, save for the large wings on his back and his single demonic arm. His wings looked exactly like the ones Rick had memorized from the Doctor that Morty had shown him. His taloned hand was wrapped around the arm Morthius had been using to strangle Morty, and Rick could safely assume that the loud cracking sound he’d heard before had been the limb’s bones breaking.

          “Mortimer,” Morthius groaned the name, his voice still filled with his anger but now tinged in physical pain. “I—”

          “You dare lay a hand on him?” Mortimer was pissed. Apparently there _was_ a limit to the amount of cruelty they were allowed to bestow upon Morty. Or, perhaps, he wasn’t as tortured as Rick had originally thought. “Have you gone soft between the ears? You know what would happen if he were to die!” Mortimer let Morthius’s arm go, but just so he could rear back his own demonic limb and slam it forward to bitch slap Morthius with so much force that the demon spun around before hitting the ground. “He bears the white bells! We need him safe and—”

_BANG_

          Mortimer’s words stopped short. His eyes widened, but he neither yelped in pain nor moved for several seconds. Then he slowly turned his head to look at Morty, who stood there with shotgun in hand and a rather serious expression.

          “Did you just shoot me?” Mortimer asked. The almost relaxed nature of his tone made it sound like he was asking something more pedestrian. Like as if his little brother had honestly thought putting pudding in his shorts had been a good thing to do. The salt hadn’t even tickled him. Impressive for most demons, especially at such close range.

          The shotgun was out of bullets and it didn’t seem to be doing him any good anyway, so Morty just dropped the thing on the ground. He continued to wear the rebellious expression, however, making sure that there was no doubt that he had pulled the trigger on purpose.

          “Why would you do that, Little Brother?” Mortimer just seemed annoyed. Then he turned his attention back to Morthius. “What has gotten into the two of you tonight?”

          Then, for the first time, apparently, Mortimer realized something was off. Rick realized that Mortimer must have been sleeping when the noise or his instincts had kicked in. He had to have flown out to stop the fight half-asleep, because he seemed lost when he saw the magma tears leaking from Morthius’s black sockets.

          “Morthius,” Mortimer purred then. “What in the world is wrong? Why are you so upset?” The Big Brother’s demeanor changed entirely. He moved forward and cradled Morthius’s hideous head in one hand and wiped away the tears with his other thumb. “Why are you so angry, Brother?”

          “He—” Morthius started. His glaring gaze moved rapidly to Morty, and his jaw clenched at the sight of the traitor. “He killed Mortavier!” It seemed that he didn’t share Mortimer’s ability to compose himself.

          For a moment, the news didn’t appear to register with Mortimer. His expression stayed dull and confused. Then he straightened out and moved towards Morty.

          “You were born with the white bells, the light of our clan and proof that you are the fourth coming of our great prince,” Mortimer said. It came out like the words of a strict teacher giving a well-rehearsed lecture. “You are the incarnation of our sovereign, Morloch. And as such, it is your duty and honor to learn the ancient ways of our clan and to bring about a new age of prosperity and birth.”

          Morty took one step back, before securing his feet on the ground. He pulled out the machete and held it in front of him, his intentions clear. “I—I don’t want to be your sovereign or your prince or whatever!” Morty’s words were shaky, but they held intense resolve. “I don’t want anything to do with you or your murderous clan!”

          “It isn’t ‘murder’ to kill things lesser than you for nourishment,” Mortimer corrected.

          “They are not _lesser_!”

          Mortimer laughed coldly. “Of course they are! They’re human.”

          “There’s nothing wrong with being human!”

          The amusement left the older male. “That’s enough out of you,” Mortimer said. “This has gone on much too long. You are just still confused because of your damned mother. She took you away and filled your head with nonsense.”

          Morty glared daggers at Mortimer. The look on the boy’s face made it clear that he thought Mortimer knew better than to bring up his mother. “She taught me to value life. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

          “We value life,” Mortimer protested.

          “Your own, maybe! But what about Summer?”

          Mortimer sighed. “I knew you had grown attached to her.” He just seemed exasperated of this topic. “You know that if she had been a compatible breeder, we would have kept her.”

          Morty’s nose crinkled in disgust. “You _raped_ her and then you _killed_ her!”

          “Buuuut,” Mortimer offered, sounding very nonchalant despite the topic. “I’ll remind you that I did test her. And she would not have been able to bring our brothers into this world. So it was just better for her to die.”

          “You—you’re cruel! You don’t even—Why can’t you see how messed up that is!?”

          “But, Brother Morty, that’s why we agreed to let _Rick_ stay,” Mortimer said simply. “Because we hoped it would ease you through the resolve you have against indulgence.”

          Rick didn’t understand why Mortimer was so calm, just expositioning things that Morty likely had already known. He heard a lilt in the vocal pattern that suggested that Mortimer might be on the verge of snapping, and that seemed like a fine excuse for it all. Sanchez had managed to get down from his boulder and moved around another cluster of large rocks so that he was now just a few yards from the three demons. He finally had a clear shot of his pick.

          “That’s n-—not what I wanted! I never wanted a _pet_! I want—” Morty lost his edge. “I wanted…” But he couldn't seem to articulate anything out loud. In the next instant, his confidence restored, he shouted, “I want to leave!”

          “You know that isn’t possible, Morty. You belong here, with us.”

          “Fuck you!” Morty lifted the machete and took a swipe at Mortimer that might have killed a human. However, the blade hit Mortimer’s skin and, being of average making, snapped in two on contact. “Oh, shit.”

          Mortimer looked casually down at the blunt end of the now useless item.

          Morthius snarled in the background, his fire starting to rage about himself again. “Why are you just standing there talking to him? He killed my brother!”

          “Calm yourself, Morthius!” Mortimer suddenly snapped.

          The power of his words alone seemed to snuff out the swirling fires and cause the riled-up demon internal pain. Rick wondered if it was managed by a spell, fear and respect, or some other kind of connection.

          “Morty?” Mortimer looked the youngest Brother in the eyes. “Did you kill Mortavier?”

          Morty waited on his response. Rick couldn’t analyze his face because he was taking careful aim at Mortimer’s skull.

          Morty spoke up. “Yes,” he lied. His voice started off quiet before growing more boisterous. “I did! I killed him, and I killed Morten too. I’m not sorry, and I’d do it again. You are all monsters. Disgusting, cruel monsters!”

          Little Sister fired her last blessed bullet. Everyone froze in place, and then Mortimer and Morty looked over at Morthius who began to scream. The shot had been meant for Mortimer, but at the last second Rick had changed his target to Morthius. The firestarter had grown impatient. His clawed hands had started to turn the color of hot iron in the furnace, and three long ropes of whipping blue flames had manifested and grew. They had lashed out towards Morty, poised to go around or through Mortimer if they had to.

          Rick hadn’t so much as given the Morthius’s move a single thought, though. He had moved on instinct, and the raw motion paid off.

          The bullet had nestled in Morthius’s skull, where it began to glow as the contact with the demon sent the powerful spell infused into its very metal into overdrive. Morthius could only scream and start to claw at his wound as the silver-iron shell burned the surrounding tissue. He looked absolutely driven mad by the feeling of having the bullet lodged in his brain. He was drooling and thrashing about wildly. Spit and dust flew everywhere as he twisted and turned so hard that he fell down onto his back. It was clear he was lost to the pain in his head, because the veiny membrane of one of his insect wings snapped, and he didn’t pay it a lick of attention. Instead, one of his burning orange claws suddenly plunged its way into the entry wound.

          “Morthius! Stop!” Mortimer cried. He sounded terrified, worried for his kin. The eldest rushed to his brother’s side. He tried to grab his arm and pull his claws out of his head, to save Morthius, but the flailing man could not be stopped.

          Morthius let out an ear-splitting shriek, the highest-pitched noise ever to come from his throat, and he screamed at the top of his lungs. “ **_Get it out of me!_ ** ”

          “I’m trying! Just. Hold. Still!”

          For an instant, Rick worried the spell wouldn’t work against demons such as these, but then Morthius threw back his head and great beams of holy light started to shine through his gaping mouth and eye sockets. The light scorched Mortimer’s hand, causing him to pull it back roughly, then he lept backwards and away from the other man with a hiss. Morthius’s body stiffened like a plank of wood as his body cracked like fragile porcelain, and the heavenly glow peaked from within.

          Rick rushed over and grabbed Morty, covering him with his coat and pulling him behind one of the boulders for protection. “Keep your head down,” he ordered, and he sheltered the boy from what he knew was coming, leaving himself more vulnerable should anything go wrong.

          Then Morthius shattered. He broke apart like fragments of a mirror, and those pieces shot out in all directions as the holy light burst forth like a flash grenade and turned the entire scene white.

          Rick could only hope that the shards had damaged—maybe even killed—Mortimer. He’d seen something like that happen before, watched one demon get fried and mangled by another’s death. Once, when he had faced off with a vampire queen, he had used one of the blessed bullets to take the powerful vixen down. Using the blessed round had been a kind of last-minute thing, and all of her remaining cult had joined around to help finish him off. When she had gone, it had dispelled so much heavenly energy that the entire den of ‘pires was completely butchered.

          “Are you okay?” Rick asked. Uncovering Morty, now that the light had faded.

          “I—I think so,” the boy offered in a slightly unsteady tone. “I—I guess I know why you didn't shoot him when he had me now.”

          “Uhh—“ Rick thought it best to let that one go. “Yeah. Sure thing, lad.” Rick patted Morty’s head and found himself taken aback by the utterly precious smile the boy offered him in return. Rick was grateful that Morten’s saliva had worn off a while ago.

          “Thanks, Rick,” Morty then said, and Rick had to look away to keep his wits.

          “Sure,” the old man replied. “Wasn’t ever a thing.”

          There were no sounds coming from around. Rick was fairly sure that he had heard Mortimer scream, but that didn’t mean anything. However, the silence _did_ suggest that there may have been something to his wishful thinking. He’d have to check for a corpse—or pile of ash—to be sure, though.

          “Come on, Morty. Up-up.”

          Sanchez wasn’t sure what it was that had embarrassed Morty so much—the old man’s tone, or the fact that he had given Morty’s hip a little pat—but RIck got tingles from the way the boy looked at him then. He blushed, visible even in the pale moonlight, and gave Rick this look that sent Rick’s old heart thrumming once more. Then Morty sat there for an extra second or two and kept giving Rick that look until the Gunslinger thought that he might actually kiss the boy.

          But the tension remained and Morty stood. He brushed off his rump and held a hand out towards Rick. “Need some help, oldtimer?” He giggled.

          “Hardy-har,” Rick mocked in good humor. He considered taking that hand and pulling Morty back down to him, but the idea was like a rogue bull, so Rick wrangled it and put it back in its pen. Maybe there’d be time for something foolish later, but he needed to check for Mortimer’s remains.

          “Well?” Morty jutted out one hip and made a sassy expression. “We don’t have all night, you know?”

          Rick reached for Morty’s hand, but paused just short of grasping it. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

          Morty’s expression had suddenly changed. His eyes were now looking above Rick’s head, further up the boulder. His gaze was filled with primal fear, and his mouth parted in a quiet gasp.

          The Gunslinger figured the hunt wasn’t over then, but before he could reach for anything or make a sound, he felt two sets of dangerous claws dig through the fabric of his tops and the meat of his shoulder blades and upper pecs. He barely managed a scream from the piercing pain before he was ruthlessly dragged backwards at a vertical angle.

          Mortimer had survived, and he was none too happy about Rick’s little light show.

          As Mortimer’s huge wings beat fiercely, he and his captive lifted up into the air faster and faster. He could get higher than Morthius had, shooting up like rocket so quickly that Rick’s skin felt the pull of gravity working with the inertia of the assent. Mortimer didn’t stop until Rick was held so high into the air that he could see the horizon of the desert more clearly, make out the distant dark smudge of the map that he realized must have been the dead town of Aluria, and Morty was barely an ant next to a small stone below.

          Sanchez hissed as one of his shoulders was dropped by Mortimer’s bloodsoaked talons. The wounds were deep enough that when the claws pulled free, garnet fluid spat from the holes upon release and rained down to the ground so very far below. All of Rick’s weight dragged on the punctured hold on his one side, the force causing his skin and muscles to stretch against the demon’s talons as gravity worked against him. The pain made Rick’s breath catch and his stomach lurch.

          He nearly puked as Mortimer’s large hands started to turn his prey around in midair with shocking ease. Then Rick had at least a handful of new holes in his torso, and the possibility of bleeding out suddenly became a real threat.

          Facing the creature now, Rick could study his adversary directly.

          The demon had changed into his true form, a long-limbed and even longer-torsoed moth-man with the same ashy, shriveled up skin Rick had seen before. However, the bony beast’s upper robes had been predominantly destroyed from the blast—either that, or Mortimer himself had removed them for one reason or another—so Rick could see the man’s corpse-like figure more clearly. The depression of his abdomen made the rows of ribs and the uneven bulges of underlying organs too prevalent. He looked mummified, almost. But this relic was alive, and Rick knew he was at a disadvantage in the air.

          When Mortimer spoke, his words surrounded Rick on the outside as though the demon were omnipresent, and they rolled around in his skull through a psychic link that Rick rather not share with an enemy.

          “ _I’ve been alive for centuries, human. I’ve lived through two comings of our Father, Morloch, and I had managed to keep the roots of my family protected through these years. I served_ **_him_ ** _, and we of_ **_his_ ** _ilk have survived though worse threats than_ **_your_ ** _kind._ ” It seemed, to some extent, Rick had made his occupation known.

 _I should have gone for Mortimer_ , Rick cursed himself. _Why the hell did I waste that last round on Morthius!?_ Then he recalled. He’d done it on reflex. To protect Morty. _Shit! Looking out for that lad is going to cost me everything!_

          “That’s great and all,” Rick said in a gruff voice. Everything hurt, and at the rate Mortimer liked to talk about shit, Rick would die from loss of blood before anything more interesting could happen. That made him feel a bit cheeky, and he figured there was no good reason to hold back his sass. “But can you wrap up this little _thing_ you’re doing? If you’re going to kill me, I’d rather just skip the preachy mumbo-jumbo and get to whatever’s coming. You smell like someone took a shit on the dead, and you look like a barber’s cat that got baked too long.” Rick made an uninterested expression and then added insult to impatience. “You catching this, bright eyes?”

          “ _How_ **_dare_ ** _you insult me,_ **_boy_ ** _!?_ ” Mortimer dug his claws into Rick’s torso again, crafting new holes and making some old wounds a little worse. He grinned as Rick cried out, unable to ignore that amount of hurt. “ _You have led Morty astray. You have killed my dearest brothers. And now you will pay with your life!_ ”

          “Faaantastic,” Rick groaned the word through teeth clamped tight. His vision was starting to blur at the edges. “But if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d prefer if you just let me go and—”

          The error of that particular phrasing was not lost on Rick. As soon as he said it, he realized he’d walked right into an age-old setup. Unfortunately, Mortimer seemed very aware of the opportunity as well, because a wide grin split his demonic maw.

          “Oh, come on!” Rick said, haste and nervousness flooding his voice. “You’re classier than that, Mortimer. Wouldn’t it be a waste of good stock?”

          “ _You’re not worth the trouble any longer. Goodbye, Rick._ ”

          And just like that, Mortimer released Rick entirely. The gunslinger could do nothing in his state to keep himself from slipping away and plummeting down towards the craggy world floor below. All he could manage was to see a line of mistakes spill out in the forefront of his mind, to wish he’d been able to save Morty, to regret he hadn’t kissed the boy when he’d had the chance, and to scream at the top of his lungs. “ _SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT_!”       

          Rick was no coward, but he didn’t like the idea of seeing the ground clearly before impact either. So he closed his eyes tightly and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in—sent a signal out to any deity that might have been listening—and promised loyalty to whatever fuckbag that could keep those pathetic thoughts from being his last. The rest was just waiting for the impact. 

          When Rick hit, he was amazed by how little it hurt. Sure, he was fairly certain he had dislocated his left shoulder, lost all of the air that was left in his lungs and felt jostled, but he didn’t feel like a pancake. Actually, now that he considered it, he had feeling. That meant that he wasn’t dead. At least, he thought that was a decent analysis. But at the same time, he wasn’t numb all over either, as he might have been if part of his brain had been splattered, but not enough that he had lost full consciousness. Even weirder, it felt like the ground was rippling and vibrating below him. To the Gunslinger’s knowledge, none of it made any sense. Except the buzzing and ringing in his ears. That seemed logical. 

          “Wait…” Rick opened his eyes, and he gasped at what he saw. 

          The ringing wasn’t coming only from his ears. In fact, most of it resonated from a few yards away. It was a familiar sound. Morty’s bells! Rick could only imagine that the boy was down below, shaking his head furiously by the sound of it. He had summoned the Doctors. All of them. Thousands of them. And Rick had not landed on the cold, hard ground, but onto a bed of swarming black, fuzzy, demon moths!

          The Doctors had rescued him from certain death! No. Morty had!

_           Damn. Guess the lad’s my new sovereign now, huh?  _

          Rick laughed and let tears roll off his tired eyes as relief washed over him. Part of him knew it was far from over, but he was so fucking grateful to be alive that he needed to take that moment for himself.

          Morty controlled the Doctors, and the moths lowered Rick onto the ground. Once he was safe, Morty eased his shaking and rushed over to Rick with his own eyes draining fat, wet tears. 

          “Rick!” the boy cried, and he threw his arms around Rick’s center and hugged him tightly.

          “Ow! Ow! Pain! Ugh. Okay. That’s better.” Rick felt a warmth in his chest he didn’t want to recognize, but all doubt he had about trying to protect the boy was gone. “I’m okay.” He spoke softly to reassure Morty. “I’m okay.”

          “I—I don’t know what happened. I didn’t—I wasn’t even thinking. Your blood was falling and then  _ you _ were falling, and I just—it just kinda happened, Rick! I just wanted to save you. So—man, I guess I—I called them, or something. To save you.” The boy laughed, a harsh, nervous and greatly relieved laugh. “And it worked!”

          Rick was deeply amused by how excited and stuttery Morty was. It filled him up with happiness, though that was a poor substitute for the blood he was still losing. He knew Mortimer was coming. In fact, he was surprised he wasn’t already upon them. Rick took advantage of the extra time and grabbed Morty by the shoulders. “That’s great, Morty. I can’t thank you enough, but listen to me, Morty! Are you listening? I need you to run. I need you to run or fly or anything and just get away—flee for your life! Can you do that for me, Morty?”

          “Rick?” Morty’s excitement turned to something that looked like fear again. “I’m not leaving you. Are you nuts?” Then his eyes widened and his gaze shifted from Rick’s face to his chest. Morty lifted his hands and looked at the red-soaked palms. “You—you’re bleeding a lot.”

          “You have to listen to me, Morty! You need to get out of here before Mortimer—”

          “ _ Morty _ !”

          Too late.

          Mortimer had flown down so that he could converse with Morty easily, but he stayed a fair distance. Rick couldn’t understand why at first, until he saw the swarm of Doctors waiting for their next instructions. Despite his hesitance, Mortimer sported a pleased expression on his freakish face. At least, Rick thought it was joy. It was hard to tell without lips or fat lying over muscle to really push the expression, but based on the demon’s voice, his analysis wasn’t too far off.

          “ _Morty! You’ve done it! You’ve finally linked with the children! This is wonderful!_ _You’re finally wakening to your powers, Little Brother._ ” Mortimer sounded earnestly proud, despite the fact Morty had used his powers to save Rick. “ _You can do anything now, Morty. Morloch’s spirit floods your veins! You are a true prince! Now, you must come with me. I can teach you all you’ll need to know. How to control them. How to create new life. How to bring more Brothers into this world._ ”

          “It’s like everything that’s happened up til now doesn’t even register with him anymore,” Rick gumbled. 

          “No,” Morty said sternly. “Don’t you get it, Mortimer? I hate you!”

          “ _ Don’t say that, my darling prince. You don’t truly mean that. It’s your mother speaking through you. _ ” Mortimer seemed concerned for Morty’s approval, though, so he added on a makeshift deal. “ _ We don’t have to kill Rick. If you favor him, we can keep him. Forever, if you’d like. We can make him as we shall make the Mothers. He will be eternal by your will. _ ” 

          Not a bad barter, if Rick said so himself. He didn’t want to be anyone’s mother, but immortality might be nice. 

_           Shit. I’ve lost too much blood. What the hell am I thinking about? _

          Morty did not appear amused. His pretty face turned twisted and red as he scowled at Mortimer and held his breath. Rick could see the veins in the boy’s slender neck protrude, his skin pull in around his major tendons. It was attractive, Rick vaguely thought, but worrying. 

          “Why don’t you get it?” Morty seethed. “ _ I’M NOT YOURS! I’LL NEVER BE YOURS! _ ”

          Morty’s irises turned a brilliant, glowing gold, and his body began to levitate up and off the ground. Four large, dark fairy wings emerged from his back—passing through the coat without harming the material—in long, black, fluffy rods. These stems unfurled to reveal shimmering, translucent, dragonfly membranes under arches of wispy fur. The space between the edges of the wings was decorated with bright, golden veins, and these weren’t Morty’s only additions. From the top of the boy’s head sprouted two appendages Rick thought were horns at first, but then they too spiraled open and lengthed out until he realized that they were actually feathery antennae.  

          The last touch came by way of the boy’s ears and jewelry. The organs themselves stretched out into elven points, and the earrings and gauges turned the same lustrous gold as the veins and his eyes. The design became more intricate, though the white bells remained the same. 

          Rick realized then that the accessories were not something they simply wore, but where a part of their kind’s physical forms.  _ Fascinating. _

          This creature was Rick’s new mothy god, and he guessed he was okay with that. He’d have to sort out the details of befriending a high-ranking devil, but his wooziness was growing and Morty looked absolutely beautiful to Rick in that moment. 

          Mortimer’s demon eyes appeared to sparkle as the soft light of Morty’s new form reflected within them. “ _ My prince, _ ” he purred and bowed his head. Rick was awestruck by how oblivious Mortimer was behaving, or how cocky and certain he was that his so-called prince wouldn’t actually hurt him. “ _ You. Are. Magnificent~! _ ”

          “You are a moron, Mortimer.” Morty said in a deadpan tone. His voice echoed out in the same supernatural way his brother’s had, but it still just sounded like him. 

          Then Morty shook his head, and the veins in his wings began to glow. Rick watched in awe, trying not to fall down on his rump as he did so, as the swarm of moths began to circle Mortimer. 

          Suddenly, the other demon seemed to catch on that Morty intended to kill him. Rick couldn’t fathom why it had taken so long, but he didn’t think it was the time to ask. 

          “ _ Morty, my prince! What are you  _ **_doing_ ** _? _ ”

          “I’m going to have the Doctors rid this world of its greatest ailment,” Morty said. “ _ You _ .”

          The swarm began to hiss, that deeply unsettling, raging hiss that Rick had only heard a couple of times. But it was all of them, every last of the thousands that must have been whirling around in the air, so the sound was all devouring and truly terrible. It swallowed Mortimer’s screams and the pitiful sound of his own wooden bells as he threw his head from side to side vigorously. Rick couldn’t make out the words he yelled audibly, but it looked a lot like he was screaming “No!” over and over again before his body disappeared in the cloud of moths. 

          There was nothing but the hissing and the rigorous beating of wings until Morty moaned and his bells silenced. 

          Rick turned in time to see Morty falling light-headed back to the ground. It was a slow descent, made softer by his buzzing wings, so Rick was able to move under the boy and catch him. As Morty fell into Rick’s arms, cradled like a bride, the boy’s demonic attributes dissipated into black and golden dust. 

          The Doctor’s screeching ceased, and then the moths rapidly dispersed—either satisfied with a job well done, or simply because they were no longer under the control of their master. From their midst fell what remained of Mortimer’s body. The wings were missing, and when it hit the ground, the sound was hollow and dry, like a sack of old bones.

          “Rick?” Morty cooed up at the Gunslinger. “Did I—did I do good?”

          “Yeah, Morty. You did good, lad.”

          Rick fought his own exhaustion because he thought Morty needed him, but almost as soon as Rick had finished praising the boy, Morty said, “Thanks, Rick. You’re hurt, though. So you should probably put me down now.” The boy smiled at Rick, the exhaustion leaving his face almost instantly. “I’m really okay.”

          Rick was sure that he’d be blushing fiercely if he hadn’t lost so much blood already. Morty was sat down onto his feet, and Rick thought that he might like to try kissing the boy now.  

          “Morty,” Rick started. “I—”

          “Don’t worry, Rick,” Morty interrupted. “I can have the Doctors heal you now. They’ll listen to me. Only me, from now on.”

          “That’s—err, great, lad. But I wanted to say that…” Rick cleared his throat. What did he want to say? That Morty was the most amazing person he’d ever met? That the boy made his heart pitter-patter like a maiden’s? That Morty’s kill move was one of the most extraordinary things he’d ever seen?

          “Look. If you want...” He had to start somewhere, and he knew what his first request should be. “Since you’re all homeless now, or whatever, maybe you’d like to—”

          Rick’s words were cut off by the sound of wheezing breath. Both Rick and Morty turned towards the dried husk lying on the ground nearby. 

          “Holy shit! What does it take to kill this guy!?” Rick huffed and stormed over to Mortimer. “Seriously? Man! Just die already. What the hell are you even holding out for at this point?” 

          It was cruel, but Rick was only a few minutes from blacking out at best, and he had psyched himself up to ask Morty some really important and humiliating shit, so at this point Rick just sort of felt like Mortimer was cock-blocking on purpose. 

          “Little….Brother…,” the husk whined. He reached up a shaky hand towards Rick, who noticed then that the moths had eaten out the demon’s eyes along with all his vital fluids. 

          “Christ,” Morty gasped and covered his mouth. He leered at the tenacious Mortimer. 

          “I don’t think baby brother likes you very much, Mortimer,” Rick said without a hint of sahem. “But you know what? My Little Brother would be happy to make your acquaintance.” 

          Rick pulled out the pistol from the right side of his belt and held the white-plated weapon pointed down, pressing the end of the pistol harshly to Mortimer’s forehead. Then he offered one of Mickey’s favorite badass lines that he had picked up from a badass Gunslinger from the South Order. 

          “Te veré en el infierno, motherfucker.” 


	8. Epilogue

“Hey, Rick! Look at you, coming to and stuff!” 

          “Huh? Morty?” Rick blinked and felt his eyes burn from a deep slumber. “What’s going on? Where are we?”

          The night of battle flashed in Rick’s head, and he sat up suddenly, regretting it at once. A gathering of Doctors that had been roosting on his naked chest started to hiss up at him aggressively. 

          “No, no, no!” Morty caught Rick and gently forced him to lie back down. “None of that, Mister. You still need time to heal.” 

          Rick relaxed, and Morty shook his head softly. The chime of his white bells eased the Doctors back into a content state. They hissed more happily as they nestled back down onto his chest, their fluffy bodies humming as they worked their magic. 

          “Sorry, Rick. I should have told you not to move.” Morty laughed and pulled a cool cloth over and began dabbing Rick’s sweat away. Rick moaned, a pleasurable sound, and waited to speak so that he wouldn’t disturb the pleasant touch. “We’re in Porcupine,” Morty said. “It was the nearest town I could find with a decent hostel.”

          “We’re in a room?” Rick asked. “How?”

          “I paid for it by selling off your nifty guns. I didn’t figure you’d be needing them anymore since Mortimer and his clan are dead.” 

          Morty said this so matter-of-factly that Rick’s heart raced and he tried to shoot up again, screaming “What!?”

          Morty laughed in good humor, but his eyebrows wove together in concern. “I’m joking! I’m joking! Geez, Rick. Give a guy some credit.”

          Rick was settled back into place, and he felt the world spin for a moment. “Goddamnit, lad. You can’t be saying shit like that.”

          The boy giggled softly and pressed the cleansing towel to Rick’s exposed abdomen. The sensation of both made Rick’s body heat unnecessarily. 

          “I know. I’m sorry.” Then Morty’s playful expression darkened. He looked almost sad, and his voice confirmed it. “Look, Rick. I understand things. You’re a loner. A hunter. And I’m some demon kid you didn’t ask for. I just want you to know I’m not stupid. I’m not trying to force myself on you. I just—I wanted to make sure you were better before…”

          “What?” Rick asked. It was an all-encompassing confusion, but Morty took it as a request for him to finish. 

          “Before I leave.”

          “Leave?” Rick’s voice displayed his annoyance. “Who the hell said I wanted you to leave?”

          Morty’s head lifted, and the little lost puppy eyes he gave made Rick feel like a different kind of monster, the perverted old man sort. Because what else could someone like him be dubbed for finding such a young thing so damn attractive? 

          “You—?” A hopeful look grew on Morty. His body even tensed as his longing for confirmation took over. “I can stay with you?”

          Rick had all manner of raunchy, romantic, and just plain sweet thoughts on how to respond, but his ego, as rough around the edges as it was, left him with only one response. 

          He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Well, you don’t know a damn thing about taking care of yourself, and I do  _ technically _ owe you for saving my ass more than a few times back there. So…”

          “Oh, Rick!” 

          “Whoa!” 

          Morty practically pulled Rick out of bed as he enthusiastically hugged the older man. The Doctors ignored being jostled this time, likely only because it was Morty doing the handling. Rick could ignore the pain for how crazy it felt being held in such a way by the boy. It was such a warm embrace, such a good feeling to be held, but the fact that Morty’s skinny little arms could lift him so effortlessly was overstimulating. 

          Rick laughed a little, a hint of nervousness and a pinch of arousal in the underbelly of the sound. 

          “All right, lad. You can stay with me.” Rick heard the loving undertones of his own voice and had to clear his throat before speaking again, lest the noise persist. “For now, at least.” Now his tone was overcompensating. “I can’t promise for… how… long…”

          Morty had let Rick hold himself up a bit as he pulled back from the man. Enough, at least, that they could make eye contact. Morty’s eyes, those beautiful green lakes, looked deep into Rick’s icy-blue pools. The boy’s expression was dangerous. It was carrying maybe even a little lust. Rick wasn’t sure whether he was imprinting or not, but it was clear that Morty felt more for the Gunslinger than just a bit of gratitude and childish need for a guardian. 

          “Can a demon be a demon hunter’s partner, Rick?”

          Rick felt his balls start to ache in that feel-good sort of way. “Not usually. But I believe every rule has its exceptions.” Rick was surprised by how sensual his own words sounded.

          “I guess that makes us  _ both _ a couple of rebels, huh, Grandpa?”

          There it was again, that damn nickname, and the shudder that ran from his head to his prick.  _ I might have a weird kink _ , Rick realized.

          “I guess so, baby boy.” 

          The retaliation sounded stupid to Rick at first, and he regretted saying it aloud, but the effect it had on Morty made him quickly revoke his harsh judgment. He was a nicknaming genius!

          The boy shivered visibly, and his cheeks and ears turned pink. He chewed on his lower lip and seemed to consider what he wanted to do next. Then, he asked Rick something the man hadn’t expected. 

          “Do you think I’m pretty?” Morty asked. 

          “You are,” Rick somehow managed to say smoothly. 

          Morty’s hips shifted and he smiled. “Do you think I’m  _ beautiful _ ?”

          “I think you’re all kinds of hot shit, Morty. Sexy. Pretty. Gorgeous. So what?”

          Morty seemed to like when Rick was a bit of a dick, or he wasn’t deterred by it, at the least. The boy pushed Rick back down onto his pillows and leaned over him. 

          Rick realized then that the boy was in a plain, oversized, white button-up shirt. His hair was still tied back, but that one little curl poked out by his right ear. Finally, Rick just lifted a hand and slowly pinched the piece between his forefinger and thumb. He rubbed it between his fingers and marveled at how silken the hair really was. 

          The boy allowed the touch and continued to stare down into Rick’s eyes. “I think I love you,” he said softly.

          Rick’s eyes moved onto Morty’s, and the two looked into each other for a long moment. 

          Rick eventually broke the silence and offered Morty the best reply he could manage. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

          The boy’s eyes lit up, and his whole complexion flushed a lovely shade of pink. 

          Then Morty bent down, and Rick lifted himself up. They kissed once, a test on Morty’s part, but Rick pulled him back in and the second one lasted longer. Morty held his breath for it, only humming from the hormones suddenly rushing through his system from the wonderful feeling. Rick adored how the boy reacted to every little thing. Then they parted, but it was too soon to stop for Morty. He pushed back. 

          They parted again. Came back together. Over and over. Each time, Morty became a little more adventurous, a little bolder. Rick’s experience helped to lead Morty into a passionate dance that lasted for an unmeasured time and left them both breathless and panting by the end. 

          “I love you, Rick.”

          “I love you too, Morty.” 

          Rick gasped, and his eyes widened. It had come out so naturally. He hadn’t even thought about it. Now he was embarrassed that the words were out there. 

          Morty giggled, clearly seeing Rick’s machismo taking a blow. It seemed to amuse Morty more than anything, but he did lift up and shook his head gently again. 

          “Where are you going?” Rick asked in something like a whine. 

          The Doctors had returned to Rick’s chest, but the Gunslinger’s body was eager and ready to accept a rough round of whatever Morty was willing to do to it. Instead, it looked like Morty was heading for the door.

          “I’m going to get you something  _ other _ than bullshit chicken soup. Okay? You just stay here and rest. I’ll be right back.”

          Rick couldn’t see Morty’s erection, but he had felt it against his hip as they kissed. The boy was some sort of lust demon, but he was more concerned with Rick’s well-being than feeding either of their sexual appetites. That…was kind of nice too.

          “All right. But you should take a knife with you, just in case.” 

          Morty lifted the edge of the untucked shirt and showed off a hollister equipped with one of Rick’s spare knives. “Don’t worry, Gramps. I’ve got this.”

          The boy left, and Rick relaxed back into his pillow. He stared up at the wood paneling of the ceiling above and laughed gently. 

          “What would you think of your student now, Birdson? I’m courting a demon, and I think I’m gonna train him as a hunter too.” But Rick thought he knew what Birdson would say, and the words comforted Rick and made him feel like he couldn’t want for more.

_           I’m proud of you for surviving, Rick. And I am grateful you no longer have to travel alone. _

**Author's Note:**

>  **Thank you so very much for reading "The Little Brothers of Aluria"!**   
>  If you liked what you read, please leave a comment and give it a kudos. If you really liked it, feel free to bookmark it to read again later or share it with some of your friends. If this story gets enough positive attention, I may continue it using the main characters from the story in other tales, so please don't be shy about your support. 
> 
> **SPECIAL APPRECIATION**  
>  I wanted to thank KLaxAddict and Jerry (Klei) for putting this Big Bang together! This was my first B.B., and it was so amazing, that I know it won't be my last! You two are amazing writers yourselves and really inspired me to give it my all!
> 
> Another shout-out to my B.B. artist, MrsSundae, and my betas, futagogo! You three did an amazing job, and I cannot thank you guys enough for all your time and effort. Thanks for dealing with my craziness! 
> 
> A huge hug and massive thank-you for my three biggest free supporters: my wife, Anathema Authoress; my new bro, OrganicRick; and my gore-buddy, Lizard! Without the support of the three of you, this project never would have happened! Thank you so much for being so supportive throughout the entire process. I love you all!
> 
> A bunch of appreciation to two of my softer cheerleaders, somewhere_in_between and Fitzcarraldo! Even with all you two were dealing with, you still made the time to support me and my work. Thank you! You're both awesome!
> 
> I'd also like to thank a ton of other people who were nothing but great during this project! For all of you who chatted with me on the Discord, everyone who put their hearts into the beautiful art and the incredible fan fictions, and even those who didn't quite make it with us to the end, thank you for participating and making this experience the best it could be!


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